How It Begins
by Thuggery
Summary: The Second Russian Civil War is raging. A madman has seized the jugular of the Middle East. Just another day at the office. A Modern Warfare novelization.
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

"War is delightful to those who have not yet experienced it."

-Erasmus

* * *

**_Day -4 – 03:20:31_**

**_Presidential Palace, Azadi Republic_**

They came for him in the dead of night. President Yasir Al-Fulani was woken by his security detail, his last line of defense in situations like this. He could immediately hear the crackle of distant gunfire: the Azadi Regular Army falling to the last man to defend their fledgling nation. They had worked so hard to rebuild this nation from the abuse of the old monarchy, Al-Fulani was not going to let their efforts be in vain. He would get out, and he _would_ survive the coup.

He stumbled to his feet and found himself being bustled out through a secret passageway that quite ironically he had used to first enter what been the "King's Palace" only two years earlier. His guards were not speaking much, talking only in rapid and unintelligible bursts into their lapel radios. And for that, he silently thanked them. This was a luckless assignment, no matter how it may have seemed to be when they had first accepted their posts. Al-Fulani and his cabinet were under constant threat of personal attack. Anyone else would have long since fled the city, even the country. But not these men. They were loyal Azadi soldiers. They would do their duty and stand to the last to ensure that he would live. Loyal and willing to do what they could to preserve their nation and government. There was no higher calling.

The stone-walled passageway opened up into one of the many garages that the King had used during his reign. After assuming power, Al-Fulani had walled-off and converted a number of them into storage spaces. But not this one. Despite the fervor that had buoyed his administration, he knew that this passageway and garage were there for good reason. A battered white Mercedes van sat in the middle of the garage. Appearances were deceptive. Despite the dents and grime, it was armored to withstand anything short of a tank shell.

"Stay in the front of the cargo area, Mister President," one of his bodyguards said as he strapped a bulky and heavy bulletproof vest onto his principal along with a ballistic helmet. "If anything happens, stay there. We will handle the fighting."

"Thank you," Al-Fulani said shakily. He realized with a sinking feeling in his gut that he never knew this man's name. He would probably never know it either. "Are you coming along?"

"No, sir," he said, shaking his head as he removed his suit jacket in favor of a vest of his own. One of the other bodyguards handed him a black submachine gun. "We will try to hold them for as long as possible. Yusef and Matta will accompany you."

Matta he knew. Ever loyal Matta with his broad beard and ever-ready smile. He had always complained that the war had ended so quickly. Al-Fulani had known the man since he had protected him from schoolyard bullies in their home village. A steadfast man. He would have liked nobody else but him to be at his side.

"Yasir, we must go," Matta called from his seat in the van. "The insurgents are closing on the building."

He nodded and extended his hand to the man who had given him the vest. "It has been an honor."

The bodyguard shook his head as he grasped his hand. "The honor is ours, sir."

Al-Fulani turned and climbed aboard the back of the van, helped aboard by Matta and Yusef. He sat down and looked around as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The compartment was stripped down with head-sized interlocking squares of some sort of ceramic composite coating the walls. Matta had a thermos which he passed over and Al-Fulani accepted gratefully. Inside was a thick, hot, and aromatic coffee.

"Just like the bad old days, yes?" Mattas asked with a vague hint of a smile. "One man with a vision of how the country should be. And one man responsible for keeping his unmentionables in one piece."

"Yes," Al-Fulani said, nodding as he took a swig from the thermos. "Just like it used to be."

The doors rolled shut to seal the three in darkness. Al-Fulani could hear Yusef checking his weapon, his breathing as ragged as his own. Only now did the complete implications of what was happening sink into his mind. He was running like a cornered animal from its hunters. The shame hit him like a sack of lead shot. His country had eaten itself apart from its core thanks to the Caliphate faction and their puppet of a leader Khaled Al-Asad. "The Lion" they called him. A two bit thug with delusions of grandeur was what he really was. But he certainly knew how to speak.

The Azadi Republic was so young, and already it was falling apart in the hands of its founders. The others who had accompanied him to topple the mad king were undoubtedly being presented with a very persuasive offer: spout their new party's line or face a swift execution like their false leader Al-Fulani would when they found him. He was divided, hoping that they would obey the madman to preserve themselves, and yet he knew that dying on your feet was as Zapata had said, better than living on your knees. Whatever path his friends would choose, he wished only for the best for them.

Their truck was now driving along the cobbled back roads of the Palace District, judging from how much the vehicle was bouncing. They were headed for a military airstrip where his salvation awaited. How could it have come to this? How were the people so easily swayed by so obvious a monster? Al-Asad had always been a terrorist and always would be. Those who rallied under his banner following his hollow promises would learn shortly what it meant to welcome a military force in as their government.

It was a silent trip, the dull rumble of the engine and the creaking of the suspension louder than anything else. Distant machine gun fire could be heard. Yusef had opened a bag of rations and was chewing quietly on a flatbread with a hand still on his submachine gun. Al-Fulani tried to calm himself and took another long drink from the thermos. Fear gnawed away at his gut like a festering wound. Despite his best efforts, he felt a wave of crushing despair over his situation. These sorts of middle-of-the-night evacuations were fairly effective, but it was the times that they weren't effective that he worried about. He didn't want to be just another statistic.

After a while, the vehicle slowed to a stop. They were at the airfield. Yusef got up first, his submachine gun sighted down at the door. When it opened, they found themselves face-to-face with a squad of Azadi Army soldiers. Loyal soldiers. Others would have discarded their arms and uniforms, and he didn't blame them. Yusef lowered his weapon slightly and stepped out. Matta followed him, only gesturing for Al-Fulani to follow after the two of them had performed a check of their own.

It was cold enough that his breath fogged. He looked around the field after returning the soldiers' salutes as best he could. Most of the lights had been doused and most of the planes looked like they had demolition charges attached to them. The Caliphate's thugs might take control of the country, but at least they would not have air assets for when the West responded in force. He only hoped that the civilians would be spared from the fighting. A futile hope when dealing with scum like the Caliphate.

The soldiers formed a bodyguard around him, supplementing Matta and Yusef. Their assault rifles were held loosely at their sides, ready in case of some attack. With Yusef leading the way, they walked toward the lone plane waiting in the gloom of the tarmac. He still felt disembodied as if watching this in a theater rather than actually being in his pajamas and wearing an ill-fitting vest and helmet and walking toward a cargo plane that was older than his nation. He was the _President_! They couldn't do this to-

Suddenly brightness. He looked up at the instantly-blazing halogen lights that customarily lit the fields. The soldiers around him dropped into defensive postures, rifles pointed outward and scanning for targets. And targets there were. Six Ural general-purpose trucks rolled in to surround them. Each of them had their beds loaded with a full complement of men wearing Caliphate colors and all of them carrying weapons. So they were too late.

"Drop your weapons!" they shouted from atop the truck beds, their own weapons waving slightly as they jockeyed with each other for a better shot or target. "Drop them now!"

"Drop yours first, traitors!" one of the soldiers shouted, his voice cracking. He couldn't have been older than twenty. "Drop your-"

He was interrupted. All of the soldiers were. Al-Fulani felt Yusuf and Matta tackle him and shield him with their bodies as bullets snapped overhead. He could already hear a ringing in his ears as the combined machine gun fire of the Caliphate rebels tore into the loyal soldiers. Loyal to the last. Yusuf and Matta both grunted as rounds struck them as well, knocking them breathless and senseless. It was perhaps a testament to their American-made body armor that both were still living while the soldiers around them died. There was a meaty thwack and he felt as if one of his legs had ballooned in size. He'd been shot.

Just as suddenly as the firing had begun, it stopped. Al-Fulani was aware of boot steps in the sudden quiet. The weight of his two bodyguards was suddenly removed, and he saw as Yusuf and Matta were pulled off of him. Then he was rolled over onto his back. Al-Asad. The Lion stood there, flanked by his men with an arrogant indulgent smile stretched across his face. In his hand was a long silver pistol. His infamous "Fist of Righteous Justice," one concession of many to his love of Americana.

"So, Mister President," he said in his nasal eastern Azadi drawl. "We meet at last. Your soldiers killed, your government sundered, and your nation under the people's control."

The wound in his leg was starting to hurt. Al-Fulani licked his dry lips before speaking. "The _people_ do not want you, _Khaled_. They never will. Not so long as any one man, woman, or child who believes in what this republic had been founded-"

"_Wrong!_"

He felt Al-Asad grab his thinning hair and pull him up to look on as two rebels dragged Yusuf up on his knees. His heart seized, and it felt as if he were watching things in slow motion as Al-Asad raised his pistol and fired. Yusuf's head seemed to evaporate into a red mist with the thunderous crack of his weapon. The two rebels dragged the headless corpse aside.

"They love me, _Yasir_," Al-Asad said, pressing the still-hot muzzle against Al-Fulani's neck. "I will _make_ them love me. But they _will_ love me. Rest assured of that." He pulled away and let Al-Fulani drop back onto the tarmac. "Pile the filth and burn it. Let their republican plague be burned with them. Al-Fulani comes with me."

Al-Fulani looked on numbly as the rebels began dragging the bodies of his soldiers and bodyguards into a large pile. Some of the soldiers had only been wounded. Two rebels grabbed his arms and dragged him away from them, allowing him a perfect view as rebels doused the pile with cans of gasoline. He was aware of Matta looking at him, even from the distance. He stared back even as the rebels threw a lit book of matches onto the pile.

The screams followed him back into the darkness Al-Asad's SUV.

* * *

**_Day -2 – 09:23:22_**

**_RAF Hereford, England_**

"So glad of you to join us, Sergeant MacTavish," the lance corporal at the duty desk said, barely looking up from the folder. "_Love_ what you did with the hair, by the way."

"Thanks," Sergeant John MacTavish said, self-consciously running hand over his freshly-shaved mohawk. "Got it for free for making the barber laugh. Where's Captain Price?"

"On the job, unfortunately," he said, doodling something in a small note pad. "Lieutenant O'Reilly _is_ in, though. Bit of a prang-up last week during exercises. Tea while you wait?"

One of the things MacTavish still had to get used to in the Regiment was how easily the enlisted addressed anyone higher-up the food chain than they were. Back in the Parachute Regiment, the Ruperts would have put the lance jack on charges for not even looking up, and the sergeants would have given him no small amount of full-contact counseling. Even with the Artists there hadn't been much in the way of this level of fraternization. It felt something like being in an under-funded B-movie for him.

"Uh, thank you," he said, accepting a mug.

"Not a problem, Sergeant," the lance corporal said. "Says here that you transferred in fresh from the Artists. Paras?"

"Yes," MacTavish said with a nod before taking a sip of his tea. It was piping hot and surprisingly good. "Good tea."

"Should be. It's heated bog water." The lance corporal looked at him for a beat as MacTavish decided whether or not to spit the tea in his face. "Relax. Just buggering about. Bought the tea myself in town."

"Good to know," MacTavish said. "Is there anything I have to do now?"

"Your baggage has been dealt with, so I suppose you had best head over to the range and get started. The boys should be back in a tick from their morning stroll. It's a block down. Utilities should be fine."

"Got it."

MacTavish ignored the directions for the moment and turned and walked deeper into the barracks. They were intended to house a squadron's four troops at a time. With the four squadrons of 22 SAS, their barracks buildings were customarily quite busy recirculating operators returning from their various missions. In this case, his new unit—A Squadron's Air Troop—was out on morning PT. That left him with some time on his hands. He found his bags already laid out on his bed. Rather nice of them, really.

He pulled his duffels open to get at the rolled-up clothes within. Pulling out his No.12 uniform, he eagerly switched out of his No.2 Service in favor of the significantly more comfortable barracks uniform. MacTavish pulled his smock on over that mostly to ward off the chill outside. He actually rather missed being stationed out in the big sandy with the Paras. Even with the bullets and the intermittent mortar attacks, it was still a good bit warmer than home.

Packing away his bags into his new locker, he closed up and head back out of the barracks. The lance corporal was still doodling and grunted as he passed. Now with some time on his hands, MacTavish decided to have a look around the famed base. He'd only had time earlier to see what he could from the car that delivered him up the main road. After signing the papers formalizing his transfer, he'd been bustled into the barracks with little chance to see anything else.

Hereford was surprisingly large for a former RAF airfield, surrounded by idyllic pastures and right next to a lovely small town. It was a definite change of pace for him from the bustling days of working with the Artists in London. He walked along the worn pavement past more squadron barracks toward what was presumably one of the base ranges. An open-air arrangement, several operators were already practicing point-shooting with their P226s, C8 carbines, and a good mix of captured and specialist equipment laid out on a table with ammunition with a lone operator who was watching rather than shooting.

"MacTavish," he said to the operator as a way of introducing himself. He pointed at the table. "May I?"

The operator nodded and picked up an unloaded Heckler & Koch G36C along with two loaded magazines. MacTavish took them and picked a spot along the firing line that wasn't taken. He pulled a target from the stack and walked out to put it up, still slightly uneasy at the thought of bullets passing barely a feet away. SAS operators _were_ trained to shoot straight, but the sound of 5.56 x 45mm full metal jacketed slugs hissing just past him awoke a primal fear. Hurrying back, he hefted the German-made carbine and loaded the first magazine. Chambering the first round, he took aim and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, a third time.

Through the Tasco red-dot scope, he examined the three holes placed neatly between the head and torso. Not exactly a clean kill. A tango would have spent the last seconds of his life gurgling as his blood poured out of the three holes torn through his neck. Certainly didn't beat that GSG-9 sniper's kill nearly a decade ago. In the circles that the SAS travelled in, _that_ had been a particularly nasty take-down. He had probably received a reprimand for going for a gut wound instead of something quicker.

He tapped out another set of rounds after adjusting his sights. Better. Adjusting his grip, MacTavish then moved up to automatic fire. The G36 handled _much_ better than the L85 he had been issued back with the Paras. But he'd left that behind with his old nickname. Emptying out the rest of his magazine, his hands fumbled as he used his other magazine to tab the magazine catch to drop the empty. Sliding the magazine into place as soon as the emptied one dropped, he pushed it home until he felt the clasp lock in place. Pulling the bolt handle back to chamber a round, he prepared to continue firing before a whistle blast stopped him in his tracks, accompanied by the distinctive bellow of a regimental Sergeant-Major.

"Check! Cease fire!"

He immediately lowered his carbine and safed it before turning to see what was the cause for all of the fuss. The Sergeant-Major was recognizable even with the official title of 'Warrant Officer' or the insignia. Few people in the armed services exuded such an air of undeniable and overwhelming superiority. If a commanding officer was God, the sergeant-major was his prophet. _Nobody_ disobeyed him. Seeing the two men accompanying him, MacTavish felt his jaw fall slack when he recognized the older of the two.

Sergeant Jimmy Doyle was a legend amongst the operators of the Special Air Service. There was the classic Americanism of being all you could be. Doyle was everything he could have been and then some, if official records were to be believed. The man and legend had originally started out as a draftee with the RAF of all things. After a bombing raid gone south, he'd managed to survive the destruction of his plane to land in the middle of occupied Holland. Linking up with an SAS-backed resistance cell, he had then gone on to blow up a vital rail bridge between Amsterdam and Antwerp that very same night. And he'd apparently picked up a taste for making shrapnel after that, joining up with the SAS proper with scores that still stood half a century later. He'd gone on to Sicily, France, and even Germany later on in the war, engaging in raids and covert operations that were required reading for new _and_ veteran SAS operators. Some of his feats seemed like they had been taken from a bad American action movie. Riding out of an exploding German gun battery in a motorcycle before escaping to the docks and then to the sea on a captured German gunboat, engaged in a running gun battle throughout? Some things could be made up, but the man was a bloody _legend_.

The other operators realized this just as quickly, many of them snapping to attention and offering salutes to the man. Even in his mid-nineties and confined to a wheelchair after a career-ending plane crash, Doyle returned their salutes crisply.

"A pleasure, gentlemen," he said. "But there's no need to stop on my account," he added, glancing meaningfully at the sergeant-major.

Several of the operators took the opportunity to gather together their spent casings. Elite special forces unit or not, the quartermaster was likely just as retentive as the rest of the accountants in the Army. All casings had to be accounted for. Eyeing his own pile, MacTavish bent down to scrape up the brass to deposit in the small buckets. Thirty forty-five millimeter-long brass casings were surprisingly small in his hands. As he got back up, he was aware of a set of shoes in front of him.

He snapped to attention with another salute. "Sir!"

"At ease. Bloody Eliza, I'm _retired_," Doyle said, waving his hand dismissively. "What's your name, trooper?"

"MacTavish, sir!" he said, still looking straight ahead.

"Well, MacTavish, you're not with the regulars anymore, so ease off with the 'sirs' and salutes," Doyle said. "Sort of remind me of myself when I was your age," he added pensively. "How long have you been with the Regiment?"

"First day here, sir," MacTavish said. "I spent a month with the Artists before getting transferred, two years with the Paras before that, sir."

"Aye? Then you'll be all right, then. You've got the makings of greatness in you, lad," Doyle said, seizing his hand. For someone nearing a century in age, he had an alarming strong grip. "Here's to hoping I live long enough to see that greatness," he said with a smile and a few pumps of his hand. Then he looked at his escort, a lieutenant in full dress but sporting a week's worth of beard. "Come on now, I believe I had an appointment with the Colonel, don't I, O'Reilly?"

"Yes sir," he said. He then looked at MacTavish and nodded. "Sergeant."

"Sir," MacTavish saluted. _O'Reilly? Wasn't I supposed to report to a Lieutenant O'Reilly?

* * *

_

**_Day -2 – 08:09:22_**

**_National Military Command Center, United States of America_**

_The advantages of rank._

Major General Steven Shepherd returned the salutes of the two MPs as he strode into the war room. Freshly shaved and showered, he hardly looked like he'd spent the last forty-eight hours drawing up plans for an increasingly-likely invasion of the Azadi Republic or whatever the coup leaders were calling it now. A tiny country out in the Middle East, it hardly warranted any attention save its placement on the jugular of trade routes through the area. A takeover of the Republic threatened to destabilize the whole Middle East. That made it the world's problem. And that made it the United States' problem.

"Talk to me," he commanded to his aides, sitting down at his customary seat at the long table. Glancing across, he nodded and smiled to the other half of the Army contingent, a freshly-minted colonel he'd worked with before. "JT."

"Sir," the younger man said with a nod. For a man who was technically not supposed to be out in the field with operational detachments, Colonel Tisnewski kept in immaculate shape and was unreasonably awake for a morning briefing at the Pentagon. He'd have to find out what brand coffee the colonel drank. "Any trouble with the traffic?"

"None," Shepherd said as he accepted a stack of folders. "You were briefed?"

"My team was one of the initial surveillance units," the colonel said. "I think we can I'm reasonably acquainted with the information."

"JT, what have we said about playing favorites?" Shepherd chided with a faint smile as he flipped through the documents.

Not good news. Not good at all. Khaled Al-Asad, leader of the Caliphate party of the Azadi Republic, blah, blah, blah, formally declared himself ruler of the new Unified Arabic Caliphate after overthrowing President Yasir Al-Fulani and the standing government of the Azadi Republic, blah, blah, blah, nationalized corporations, blah, blah, blah. He sounded to Shepherd like just another pot-metal dictator with delusions of grandeur. But his anti-American and anti-Western attitude could use a little adjusting. Probably with a few Joint Direct Attack Munitions and some Tomahawks. It looked like the plans he had drawn up were going to be put to use.

"Can we extract Al-Fulani?" he asked Tisnewski. "Get Delta in there and get him out of there? I seem to recall spending a lot of time and money to support his government."

The colonel shook his head. "Not at this time. As much as it pains me to suggest it, we could probably get better results by sending Marine Reconnaissance in on a snatch or neutralization mission. See if we can decapitate the new leadership."

"I like that idea," Shepherd said. He looked at the door. "Heads up, the boys are here."

The two Army officers stood and nodded to the rest of the Joint Special Operations Command leadership as they entered the room. Collectively they were responsible for all special operations conducted by the United States military. Any usage of SOCOM assets anywhere in the world would have to first be juggled here before being passed up to the President. And considering what they were looking at, Shepherd had a sinking feeling that the big man in the Oval Office would be signing off on these orders shortly.

"Gentlemen, let's put this simply," General McNulty said, walking in with an unlit cigar firmly clamped between his teeth and contrary to what his doctors had told him. "What are we looking at?"

"The Azadi Republic," Tisnewski said to his former direct superior. "We helped their President with his coup a few years back."

McNulty's brow crinkled. "Al-Fulani, right? So what happened? Did his popularity rating take a dump or something? Why the hell am I hearing about this new Al-Asad guy?"

"Sir," Shepherd started. "Khaled Al-Asad is a mad dog, whores out to the highest bidder while claiming it to be for the greater good. Whatever can get him more recruits to continue his war, he'll do. Extremely charismatic. If we want to free the Azadi, we'll have to get this guy first. And it won't be easy."

"Personal experience, Shepherd?" McNulty asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I got my stars hunting his 'Caliphate' movement, sir," Shepherd said after a moment. "Four years of chasing him. If anyone knows what the fucker will do, I do."

"I like the sound of that, don't you, JT?" McNulty laughed, looking at the colonel. "Mad dog shaking his ass to get some funding?"

"Sounds like home, sir," Tisnewski said with a smile and a chuckle. When he addressed Shepherd, all emotion was suddenly and completely drained from his voice. This was a side of the special operations commander had never revealed to him. "Tell me, _Lieutenant_ General Shepherd, how would you like a second crack at finding Khaled Al-Asad?"

He smiled. "You know anyone better?"

* * *

-

* * *

Author's Notes: So it begins. Just something to pass the time while my brain cools down. C&C is always welcome.


	2. Chapter 1

"It is well that war is so terrible, or we should get too fond of it."

-Robert E. Lee

* * *

_**Day 0 – 10:22:01**_

_**RAF Hereford, England**_

"Ever handle one of those American Adaptive Combat Rifles?" Lieutenant Craig O'Reilly asked MacTavish conversationally as they signed out ammunition at the range. "They look bloody atrocious."

"Can't say I have, sir," MacTavish said, taking his share of the six magazines. "They look unusual, if you ask me."

"Of course I'm asking you," O'Reilly said with a laugh. He picked up his G36C and cleared it. "You being the new guy and all. I'll take me one of these any day. Diemacos are nice too."

Doing the same with his L119A1, MacTavish then set two of his magazines aside and loaded his first magazine. The team hadn't returned yet, so it was just him and the lieutenant having their morning practice. They expended thousands of rounds every week to keep their skills sharp and ready to use in case some tango decided to make them try a trick shot.

They were in one of the enclosed ranges of the base. Earplugs would be essential here. Stepping up to the line, he raised the carbine and opened fire. The two operators fired rapid bursts of single shots, their targets coming apart as they emptied their magazines. O'Reilly finished first, his shots tightly grouped enough to leave a ragged baseball-sized hole in the torso of his target. Performing a rapid transition to his USP, he continued firing. The lieutenant was _good_.

"Artists, right?" he asked after emptying his magazine. "See anything interesting?"

MacTavish shrugged noncommittally between shots. "Might've done something last week in London."

O'Reilly grinned as he dropped the empty magazine and reloaded his sidearm. Sliding it back onto his drop-leg holster, he reloaded his German-made carbine and reeled in the target. Clean shots all on target. The lieutenant was _really_ good. "Had a fun time, then? Heard all about it. Pity we were out of country."

"Oh?"

"Skydiving," O'Reilly said, slapping his thigh. "Took a bit of a spill."

"What, were you jumping without parachutes?"

"Something like that. Finish up your mag, I remember you doing something on the range a few days ago."

"Yes, sir," MacTavish said as he continued firing.

"And easy on the sirs, MacTavish. You're in the Regiment, my team. We don't precisely follow social convention around here. Feel free to call me Gaz."

He paused and looked at the lieutenant. "Er, yes, Gaz? What kind of a name is Gaz, anyway?"

"Same sort of name as 'Soap', MacTavish."

_Oh, for the love of God, I thought I left that name behind in the Paras…_

"Where did you learn that one, Gaz?" MacTavish asked, resuming his fire. "I don't think I ever told anyone in the Artists. Certainly isn't going to be on my service record."

"I asked around, a little background checking," Gaz said, leaning against one of the stalls. "You'd be surprised how far a bottle of Springbank would go with a few mates, young Soap."

"Yes, Gaz," MacTavish said with a sigh. _Traitors_. He emptied his magazine and looked over. "What was it that you wanted to see, sir?"

"Transition to your sidearm and empty the magazine at the target, Sergeant."

MacTavish responded instantly, letting the carbine drop on its sling as his hand reached down and pulled his USP from his holster. Bringing it up, he squeezed the trigger immediately when he achieved an ideal sight picture. He liked the new sidearm. Surprisingly little kick for a tack driver. He emptied the magazine in seconds before holstering it and turning to Gaz, who shook his head and whistled in admiration.

"Now _that_ is a smooth transition, mate. Didn't even see the facial cues."

"Pardon?"

"Your transition, Soap. Fastest I've seen in a while without looking. Practice it much?"

He shook his head. "Not particularly. It's just reflex. It's unusual?"

Gaz chuckled. "Well, I figure it'll probably take you longer to load than just to grab your sidearm. Keep that in mind, Sergeant. Now let's get the rest of our mags fired and the brass policed up, I believe Newcastle's got some lovely new toys for us outside. Let's try it at a faster pace, shall we? How about automatic? Whoever gets more on target doesn't have to police up the brass."

"You've got yourself a deal," MacTavish said near-instantly, his competitive nature getting the better of him.

New targets were spooled out before they started again. In the confines of the shooting stalls, each burst of automatic fire flung spent casings to ricochet off of the walls and occasionally pelting them as they worked through their magazines. MacTavish focused on keeping his carbine steady as he fired, wrestling with the recoil to keep a tight grouping. He heard Gaz stifle a curse when a still-hot casing skipped off of the side of his face. Gaz finished a second before he did.

"Right, let's see about those groupings, shall we?" he asked, reeling in his target. He leaned over to examine MacTavish's target when it was reeled in as well. "Oh, that looks close. Too close, I'd say. Call it a draw?"

"Certainly," MacTavish nodded. It wouldn't do for a lieutenant to beat a squaddie. Nor was it proper for a squaddie to beat a lieutenant. It definitely worked out best this way.

He knelt down to start picking up his brass.

"Delegation of responsibilities, Soap," Gaz said, stopping him with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Oi! Trooper Lootz!"

"Sir?" the trooper asked from his seat in the gun cage.

"Get this brass written in, will you? The sergeant and I have some business to see to!" Gaz shouted.

"Er, yes, sir!" the reply came. "I'll be right there, sir!"

"Now come on, we've got a pressing engagement to see to," he said to MacTavish, smiling from ear to ear. "Lootz, we're leaving the rifles on the counter!"

"Yes, sir!"

Sometimes being an utter arse was cathartic. Making sure to push his emptied carbine completely through the opening in the gun cage, MacTavish followed the lieutenant out while the trooper was busy sweeping up their casings. It was another cloudy day as they walked to one of the shielded outdoor ranges. Operators walked around between the buildings, not tasked with anything in particular at the moment and not visiting the town for some reason. Staying on base had always been a bother.

The range they had entered looked like a modified grenade range with a cinderblock wall obscuring much of the field. MacTavish could make out a dozen or so vehicles parked out on the grassy range, a mixture of tracked armored vehicles and more conventional wheeled vehicles. All of them had been badly burned and sported obvious breaches in their armor. Except for one that was fairly close-by. A Lada Riva. Did they still make those things?

"Sergeant MacTavish, meet Sergeant Newcastle," Gaz said with a flourish of his hand. "He'll be responsible for teaching you the basics of our trade. Newcastle, meet Soap."

MacTavish eyed the sergeant who eyed him right back. Then Newcastle grinned and extended his hand.

"Pleasure meeting you, Soap," he said with a thick Welsh accent. "Now then, fresh off the truck."

The sergeant slid several long blocks of Composition 4 onto the table along with a handful of blasting caps and wire next to the pile of rusting cans, bottles, rolls of tape, vacuum hose, loops of detcord, and for some reason a small bag of all-purpose flour.

"Right, I'm sure our Lieutenant here is all well aware of what these toys can do alone, aye?" Newcastle asked, looking at the two operators. "Now for some fun courtesy of our counterparts across the pond. I present to you're the moldable linear cutting charge, the one-shot door-knocker, and a lovely cover of our favorite car-buster," he said as he set to work like a carnival barker.

Soap could partially keep up with the demolitions expert as he assembled a series of explosives from the raw materials. In a minute, he found himself looking at a vacuum hose loaded with tan C4 as well as a soup can loaded with the plastic explosive and what might have been just a bundle of the explosives tied up with webbing. Newcastle held up a section of the hose for their inspection.

"Simple enough construction, but quite effective for the finer jobs. If you'd observe?"

Pushing a blasting cap into one end of the tubing, he then wrapped it twice around a chunk of broken concrete that was larger than his head. The sergeant then spliced the leads of a small transmitter to the exposed wires of the solid pack electric blasting cap. Securing the loop with several lengths of gun tape, he then set the debris down inside a small trench apparently made exclusively for the purpose of testing explosives.

Producing a radio detonator, he waved the other two operators back.

"Fire in the hole," he called.

With a squeeze of the side-mounted lever, the chunk of concrete became two chunks in a sudden burst of sound and dust. MacTavish uncovered his ears and waved the concrete dust and smoke out of his face. He walked over to examine it, and sure enough the block had been cut in two. Gaz applauded slowly as he examined the damage himself.

"Clean. Don't see much scarring on the walls," he remarked.

Newcastle nodded. "That's the trick behind this one. Minimal collateral for maximal structural damage. Imagine what it'd do if you'd strapped it to a load-bearing column…"

"We generally try not to, Sergeant. I'm not sure if you're aware of this or not, but the SAS is an anti-terror organization, not a terror organization."

"Aye, and is that why we keep sending our status reports from caves?"

Gaz shook his head. "No. That, Sergeant, is because that is where our enemy of choice likes to hide himself nowadays."

"Got that, sir," Newcastle said. "Moving on, we've got our lovely new breaching charge. Low-impact shaped explosive. I'll demonstrate if you'd follow me?"

The sergeant gathered up the remaining two explosives and several more blasting caps and transmitters from the table. He then led MacTavish and Gaz onto the actual range, where a series of doors had been set on battered frames. MacTavish figured that this would be their door-breaching practice area then. He'd been trained to use the more traditional "two loops and a det" door knocker that was hung around the door knob, and it looked like Newcastle was doing something similar with the coffee can.

"You might want to stand back a bit," the sergeant said as he set the charge up over the door knob of the practice door and wired it up. He then offered Gaz the detonator. "Lieutenant?"

"My pleasure," Gaz said, taking the detonator. "Fire in the hole."

This explosion was much less spectacular. One moment there was a whole door and the next it had been blown inward with a dull boom. The charge had blasted the knob clean off along with half of the door. MacTavish watched as Gaz kicked the remnants of the door experimentally. He whistled admiringly.

"Sergeant, try using a bit less of the C4 next time. Anyone on the other side would be turned into bloody potted meats from that blast. Cracked the frame as well," he said, sucking on his teeth. "But I rather like it. Nice to have a Plan B if things go south."

MacTavish nodded. It _was_ a bit too powerful for ordinary room breaching. However, it was just powerful enough to probably blow holes through civilian walls. He'd have to ask about those later. Newcastle then hefted the final piece of ordnance.

"Last but not least, we have a rehash of the classic," he said with a smirk. "High-yield demolition charge. Sticky-backed and enriched with a nice powder charge. Sugar, in this case. Soap?"

"Sergeant?" he asked before he had the bundle of plastic explosive thrust into his hands. "Right?"

"Seems my ex-wife was kind enough to lend us her vintage Riva for the furthering of your education, Soap," Newcastle said, not even trying to suppress the nasty grin spreading across his face as he pointed at the new car on the range. "You know how to handle vehicular demolition?"

"Not particularly," MacTavish admitted.

"See? You're learning already!" Newcastle said, smiling. "Now the important thing to remember about these sorts of jobs is that a car can only run with an engine. So why don't you tell me where you'd put that bundle of joy?"

Interesting question. MacTavish still remembered enough of his father's old Lada to recall where the touchy mechanical parts were most delicate.

"Engine or the drive shaft?"

"Very good, Soap," the sergeant said, nodding approvingly as he handed over the bundle of the explosives and another of the spliced fuses. "For the purposes of this, we will be covering the more field-expedient method of resource denial. Ideally you want to place the charge underneath the hood or directly underneath the driver's seat. Maximizes the effect, but when you're in a bit of hurry, there's a bit more leeway about these sorts of things. Go on and plant that thing on the car hood. Remember to take the backing of the charge off before you do that, though."

MacTavish flipped the bundle around to find the tape backing of the charge. Double-sided tape. Smart. Walking out onto the range, he came up to the battered car. Seemed almost a shame to destroy a relic. Then again a Lada Riva was hardly a religious item, nor was it particularly venerated. He peeled the tape backing from the charge and attached it to the hood of the car. Then he plugged the fuse in and high-tailed it back to the safety of the shelter that he had come from. Gaz tossed him the detonator.

"Fire in the hole!" Newcastle shouted as MacTavish squeezed the lever.

All it took was a moment of pressure before the small lever stopped resisting. Then the car went up in a very visible and very loud manner. He felt the jolt of the explosion through the ground as the plastic explosive detonated followed immediately by the ignition of the powder charge. The addition of the flour had served as fuel for a dust explosion once the C4's detonation had scattered the powder sufficiently. Without it, the C4 would have merely created a former Riva. With it, the now deceased Riva was well on its way to meeting its great manufacturer in the sky. It was now an ex-Riva. And it was done with a bit of flair, too.

"That recipe," Gaz said in the resulting silence as they admired the blast. "I think I'll have a copy of that."

* * *

_**Day 0 – 12:03:44**_

_**Ryazan Alexandrovo, Russia**_

"Come on, easy now!"

Junior Sergeant Yakov Ivanovich Gushenko helped push the stretcher out of the rear of the BMD-1. They had been badly mauled in the fighting, block to block, house to house, and room to room. His blood-slick boots slid over the still-warm brass casings that filled the floor of the troop compartment. Gushenko had only completed his induction paperwork a day before the Ultranationalists had come knocking at Ryazan's door. It had been as the newest member of the 137th Parachute Landing Regiment that he had been introduced to his first taste of real combat.

It terrified him.

His parents had been supportive of him when he'd chosen to stay on past his mandatory year of service. But that had been when he was safely ensconced in the heart of the Siberian Military District headquarters as an aide to an aide for a low-level officer. It had been over six months since he had last heard from them, mostly thanks to his sudden choice to try transferring over into the elite Airborne Troops. But it was only now as he climbed out of the cramped confines of the troop bay that he was beginning to regret his choice.

Thankfully he hadn't been wounded. He couldn't say the same about his sergeant though. Sergeant Viktor Dmitriev Sokolov had been hit by RPG shrapnel, opening up his right leg to the bone. Oleg Sergeyevich had been less lucky. The private been hit by that RPG. They had managed to find his right arm and legs. And at least his face was thankfully intact. Small consolation for the funeral.

Gushenko picked several of the casings off of his pant legs. They had stuck to the coagulating blood and viscera that had splashed on him when Corporal Sarayev had been flailing after a sniper had opened his belly with a single high-caliber round. Having to squat in his still-warm entrails while their ancient fighting vehicle wound its way south out of the city…

He watched as the wounded of the casevac formation were quickly offloaded for the triage tents set up by a wooded field that stored several Mi-24 Hinds. Several tin shacks sat in the corner of the field close to the parked fighting vehicles, probably officers or some such. Leaning against the bullet-scarred side of the BMD, he took a steadying breath. The air smelled of flowers, blood, and death. This was their existence now with the Ultranationalist. Who knew they would be brave enough to try attacking Ryazan? Or was it stupid? He'd seen a battalion-sized element of the terrorists. There were several _regiments_ of VDV stationed there. The terrorists' defeat in this battle was inevitable. It was only a matter of seeing how many had to die before then.

But he dreaded heading back into the fight. The confines of the city made for nightmarish fighting. Every corner could be hiding another enemy. RPGs being slung back and forth like explosive party favors. The worst part of it was how the collaborators came out of the woodwork.

"You! Sergeant!" a coarse voice barked. "Junior Sergeant!"

Gushenko turned instinctively at the sound. It carried an air of command with it, someone used to leading men into combat. And by all appearances, it was. The speaker was by no means particularly tall. A few centimeters shorter than Gushenko was himself, the man wore the chevrons of a _starshina_, a Master Sergeant, proudly along with several days' growth of beard. But most striking was his uniform and rest of the seven men accompanying him. They wore KMLK, _Kamuflirovannyy Letniy Maskirovochnyy Kombinezon_, an ancient pattern that stood out amidst the general VDV Flora patterned fatigues. He'd previously only seen it in his history books. Used by Spetsnaz GRU.

"Sir!" he shouted, snapping to attention.

"At ease, at ease," the master sergeant said, waving his hand dismissively. "You are with the One-Three-Seventh, yes?"

"Yes, Master Sergeant," Gushenko said, eyes still wide.

"What's the current situation in Ryazan then?"

"We were engaging forces along Novosyolov, sir. Heavy resistance along the north."

"Did you see any armor? Any other assets?"

"We were engaged by several BMP-2s," he said. "Sir, why haven't you asked the officers, sir? They have a better view of the battlefield than I did."

The Spetsnaz sergeant chuckled, glancing back at his team. "I think I'll trust the enlisted man before the officers, young junior sergeant. You have a name?"

"Yakov Ivanovich Gushenko, sir."

"Well then, Yakov Ivanovich," the sergeant said. "How do you feel about showing us the sights?"

"Sergeant?" Gushenko spluttered. They were asking _him_?

"That's right," the sergeant said. "We're a man short and were told we could pick a soldier to assist us. Would you be so kind?"

"Absolutely, sir," he stammered. "Should I get-"

"Ammunition and a few grenades," one of the sergeants behind the master sergeant said. "Those generally help."

Gushenko nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir!"

Even as he headed over to draw fresh ammunition for his AKS-74U, he could feel a nervous pit growing in his stomach. He didn't want to go back into the fight. His platoon had been slaughtered by machine guns that the officers kept walking them into. They said that there was a plan. They said many things.

He picked up fresh magazines and reloaded his carbine as well. There was plenty of ammunition to be had here, but likely much less out in the field since the Ultranationalists tended to carry Western weapons. Not nationalistic enough to carry proper _Russian_ equipment then? His bravado rang false even to himself. He was supposed to be working in an office now if he hadn't chosen to continue serving. And if he hadn't continued, he wouldn't be here about to act as some sort of guide for a Spetsnaz team, heading back into the fight. He wouldn't be about to _die_ if he had only listened to his parents.

It was the breaks between combat that got to him. Having mortar shells raining down on you tended to make living for the next second a vital priority. Without the constant rush of adrenaline to numb his mind, Gushenko found himself having time to doubt. Why was he here?

His unit was still in the city. They were being cut to pieces out there fighting an enemy. He had sworn an oath when he had joined up. Mustering his strength, he pulled on his 6B13's straps to tighten the ballistic vest even further. It wasn't that he didn't trust the vest, but he wanted it as tight as possible to avoid having his guts spill out _if_ something penetrated. He took a breath and jogged back over to the Spetsnaz team.

"I'm ready to go, Master Sergeant," Gushenko said, hoping there wasn't a quaver in his voice to give away his apprehension, or at least that the Spetsnaz NCO would only interpret it as jitters.

"Follow," he said, turning and walking. "What can you tell me about the situation with the river banks, Gushenko?"

"I think it is still disputed, Master Sergeant," he said.

The sergeant shook his head. "Enough with the 'Master Sergeant' bullshit. Either call me Kamarov, Sergeant, or any permutation thereof, understood? Any particulars of the area we should know about?"

"Yes, Sergeant Kamarov," Gushenko said as they walked. "We saw trucks moving anti-aircraft weaponry into the area."

"Great," one of the sergeants behind them said loudly. "Hope we all remembered to sign our wills."

"Kolya, did you not get enough to drink today? Shut up!" Another operator reached forward and smacked the back of the sergeant's head. "You got warm food and a good headcount. What're you looking for?"

"A chance not to fly straight into flak would be nice," Kolya said.

"Kolya…" Kamarov said in a warning tone. "Carry on, Gushenko."

"Yes sir," Gushenko said. "Reports when we were returning have light armor support in addition to the anti-air. I wouldn't know how it looks now."

"Your personal view, Gushenko? I'd appreciate some honesty."

Gushenko looked at Kamarov for a moment. That was not something most NCOs asked their subordinates for. Not in the Ground Forces, at least. "Honestly? It's not a matter of whether or not we will win, sergeant. We _will_ defeat these terrorists. It's only a matter of how many of us have to die before they surrender. And how long."

Kamarov's face split into a weary smile. "Then tell me, how would you like to limit our losses, Junior Sergeant?"

"Whatever it takes, Sergeant Kamarov."

"Good," the sergeant said as they walked up to one of the Hinds being prepped for a fire mission. "We've located a likely position on the other side of the river where the Ultranationalists are keeping their commander."

A chance to end this? He'd take it. Gushenko nodded as the Spetsnaz team boarded the gunship. Kamarov extended his hand down to help him up. He accepted it, getting pulled aboard. His anxiety withered with the growing pitch of the helicopter's rotors spinning up.

One of the sergeants slapped his shoulder in what might have been a comradely gesture. "The name's Marko. So, see much down there?"

"Some," Gushenko said.

He was instantly brought back to the sights and sounds of the battle along Novosyolov Street. The sound of VDV Kalashnikovs' staccato pops meeting the lighter faster crackle of the Ultranationalists' mish-mash of Western rifles. The paratroopers thrown into the air like ragdolls from artillery. The screams for mothers as the terrorists were rounded up and cut down. There was no place for mercy or decency on this battlefield. They had been invaded. Civilians had been targeted, their houses burned by the Ultranationalists. Terrorists only understood one language. But the men of the VDV spoke it just as well as they did.

The Hind headed east, following the road to Ryazan. Gushenko could see a steady procession of casevac vehicles bearing wounded driving toward the airfield behind them. The city was a mile away, but he could make out the columns of smoke rising from the city center. Sporadic tracer streams shot up into the sky, chasing dueling gunships. Wherever the Ultranationalists got their equipment from, they had gotten plenty of them. Gunships weaved in low between buildings, their rocket pods and machine guns flashing as they rained death on the combatants below them. Several of them took potshots at each other as well, and some of the sparring pairs had identical unit flashes. The Ultranationalist cause was worryingly pervasive.

"Keep your head in, kid," one of the Spetsnaz operators shouted over the rushing wind. "You're liable to get it taken off by the flak."

Nodding, Gushenko tucked his legs and head in as they passed through a pillar of smoke rising over a burning pile-up where the Ultranationalists had tried to drive an armored spearhead into Alexandrovo. Those idiots had been met in the fields with VDV anti-armor guns. And now all that was left was a smoldering twist-up of ruined armored vehicles. He almost felt something for those unfortunates, but his sense of dread was overwhelming.

Some of the unit psychiatrists had claimed that it was normal. All VDV soldiers felt the same way he did. So were they implying that they were all a unit of cowards? He had no illusions. While being in an elite unit counted for something, he was still a coward. He would never be the one to fire the first shot. Ironically enough, he'd fired plenty of shots during the evacuation of the wounded. A hero? Hardly.

"Okay, you boys may want to hold onto something," the pilot announced over the intercom. "We're entering a hot zone."

"I live for this!" Marko whooped.

The Spetsnaz operators automatically grabbed for the cargo netting that covered the walls of the troop bay. Gushenko did similarly, the stock of his carbine jamming painfully against his arm until he folded it in. He still had a good view of the landscape as the pilot banked the Hind sharply to avoid a stream of anti-aircraft fire. The approaching city grew even closer now. He heard the gunship's nose-mounted cannon fire at something below them as they leveled out.

They were taking the short way to the river: straight through the city. Passing over Turlatovo, he could see the Ultranationalists being driven off of the airfield, several of their old An-14 turboprop transports ablaze as VDV troops advanced. Marko hooted and pumped a fist in the air as they dove in close, the nose gun tracking and firing on the retreating Ultranationalist troops. So this was where they had set their transports down.

There was something admirable in a properly thought-out attack, even if it was doomed to failure. The Ultranationalists had started with BMPs and gunships rolling in to secure landing sites. Once landing sites had been secured and marked, they started putting down infantry forces. From what he had seen on the street, the Ultranationalists were almost as disciplined as the VDV were. They followed orders from an established chain of command, and demonstrated a dangerous understanding of ambush tactics.

Too bad they had to die. Messily.

Anti-aircraft fire from a nearby ZU-23-2 flashed past, several of its twenty-three millimeter shells knocking the Hind around slightly, tearing open rents in its armor and possibly hitting something vital. Gushenko could hear the rocket pods discharge, the gunship shaking even more. But the resultant kill was worthwhile. He saw the camouflaged anti-aircraft gun explode in a glorious flash of flame when the S-5 rockets struck. And then the Hind continued shaking.

"Oh, this is _not_ good," the pilot announced, remarkably calm. "Hydraulics damage. Massive. We're going to have to set down."

"Comrade, I don't want to hear that!" Kamarov bellowed over the rush of wind. "You are to remain on mission!"

"Friend, I wasn't aware you Spetsnaz boys could spontaneously evolve _wings_," the pilot retorted. "Unless you can, we're going to have to set down. We keep flying and we all get to meet the great commissar in the sky! This helicopter is going _down_, and I'd prefer to do it on my own terms!"

"He's got a point, boss," Kolya shouted. "I really don't feel like reenacting that American mission in Somalia!"

"Prepare for a rough landing, boys!" Kamarov shouted.

Gushenko was close enough to hear Kamarov snort in disgust as the pilot brought their ride down near a factory complex. He could feel the quaking of the gunship as it struggled against the pilot's attempts to keep it stable. A klaxon sounded as they were only twenty feet off the ground. Immediately, the team was on their feet and pulling their equipment together. Then something stopped vibrating.

"Brace for impact!" Kamarov shouted as their ride performed a rapid lithobrake.

There was the terrible sound of ripping metal as the Hind flopped down into the ground. Eyes closed, Gushenko felt himself being lifted and thrown into a wall as left-over momentum flipped the gunship into the side of a building. He slammed against the wall with a wet tearing sound. The gunship had plowed partially through the wall before settling into the pile of shattered bricks beneath it.

His shoulder hurt as he looked around in the sudden silence. The Hind had settled on its side, leaving him dangling by his arm and the Spetsnaz thrown into a pile beneath him. In the numbness of shock, he looked at his shoulder. Wrenched out of its socket if the way it was dangling now was any indication. Was it supposed to hurt?

He answered his own question a second later when a burning spear of pain shot through him, radiating from his shoulder. Gushenko managed a ragged scream before blacking out.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 08:31:02**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

They were as ready as they ever would be. Or at least that was what Sergeant Paul Jackson figured. Force Reconnaissance didn't do too many hostage rescues as of late, mostly thanks to the creation of MARSOC and the First Marine Special Operation Battalion five years ago. He didn't fault the idea behind the shift, but it seemed like a crying shame to the ten-year Reconnaissance veteran that the Force Reconnaissance companies were folded in until three years ago.

"Officer on deck!" Staff Sergeant Marcus Griggs bellowed suddenly.

He stood up at attention along with the rest of his platoon as the officers walked into the briefing room. He recognized two of the four officers, Lieutenant David Vasquez and Captain Nate Sands. The other two he didn't know, but they looked like REMFy motherfuckers to him. A general and a full-bird colonel. The fact that they wore Army fatigues wasn't earning them any notches in his stock book.

"At ease," the general said. Real old-school too, considering his Military-Basic accent. Jackson hadn't thought anyone in the military still spoke that way. "Sorry for putting you on short notice. But how do you boys feel about burning and looting a country?"

"Sounds fine by me," Corporal Mel Roycewicz called from the back of the room. "Got a place in mind?"

_Does that guy not know how to_ shut up?

"How does the Azadi Republic strike you?" the general asked. "I'm sure you've heard about the uprising there."

"Strikes me just fine, sir," Roycewicz said.

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

"Good to hear, son. All of you can sit down already, 'cause I'm not standing," the general said, taking his beret off and running a hand through his short-shorn whitening hair before sitting down by the maps of the briefing room. "The name's Shepherd," he said. "JSOC. I won't bother your with the details, but something special came up."

Obviously it was special enough for the brass to fly a platoon of MARSOC Force Reconnaissance operators across the globe. Jackson had stayed over in Lemonnier several times before as layover stops for work in the sandbox. And they had just returned from a tour there as well…

"Four days ago, the Azadi Republic underwent a revolution of sorts," Shepherd said. "I'm sure we've all seen the Caliphate beheading videos before. The new bosses make our old friends in the caves look like candy-stripers. These guys are like snakes, but hardly as smart. You cut the head off, the body dies. So you boys will be playing the role of snake killer. Feel up to it?"

"Born ready, sir," one of the operators shouted from the rear.

Shepherd laughed. "Good! The Colonel here will give you an idea of what we're facing in the Republic. Colonel?"

There was a certain quality about the full-bird, even for an Army grunt. He sported Ranger and Airborne tabs on his arms. Probably a promoted Army Special Forces operator considering that despite his otherwise sterile uniform, he managed to look like a caged animal just waiting to pounce.

"Lights?" he asked, head cocked at the Marine closest to the light switch. When the windowless room blacked out, they could hear the sound of the projector's fan coming to life. "Thank you. Now then, this is the Azadi Republic." A political map of the country appeared on the screen.

"Home to a population that isn't all that large. Most recent census had a headcount of about forty million. Now imagine all of them crammed into a piece of land not that much larger than New Jersey. Nice chokehold on the better ports in the gulf despite its size. That means trade control. That also means that nobody gets through without their say-so. Not a pretty place though, even with the reforms of Yasir Al-Fulani," the colonel said. "Which brings us to one of our concerns." The picture of Al-Fulani. Fairly famous after his coup. "This mission you will be undertaking will _not_ be to rescue President Al-Fulani."

"So why the hell're we getting sent in, sir? Can't the rest of the Corps handle this sort of thing?" Sergeant Max Koenig asked.

"No offense meant to your brothers, but I think I'll trust a special operations-capable unit for this sort of job. Instead, you're tasked with finding and bringing the new boss in for a heart-to-heart." The colonel waved at the screen as it switched to a new face. "Khaled Al-Asad. Might know him, might not. Either way, he's the head of the Caliphate Party and the new boss of the Azadi Republic. I don't think I need to remind you what the Caliphate is about."

"Looks untrustworthy," Staff Sergeant Tom Banks said quietly to Jackson, jerking a thumb at the fuzzy portrait of Al-Asad.

Jackson looked at the face displayed. Late forties and going for the Che look. "I hear you. Looks like your classic case of 'fucking insane' to me."

"Oorah," Banks said quietly, nodding as he jotted down some notes.

The colonel continued talking. "Now the Caliphate's forces have had a few days to begin their crackdown. Intel indicates massed movements. Forces split between securing their borders and, well, purging the civilian population of 'dissenters' which you might as well say is killing the majority of them. Satellite imagery."

There was a sudden silence as the operators took in the images. They saw masses of civilians being herded into a deep pit under the armed and watchful eye of Caliphate soldiers. Then clear muzzle flashes as the soldiers opened fire on them from above. Then freshly-filled pits. And mass graves weren't the only way the "Caliphate" was getting rid of opposition. They used tanks as well…

_Jesus_.

"As it is, the President hasn't given any official word about our stance about this." The colonel paused for a second, as if composing himself. "But I suppose the fact that the Second Fleet Marine Force is being mobilized to reach the gulf in under a day should say something."

There were a few strained chuckles. Most of the men were still recovering from the shock of the images.

"I'll leave it to you gentlemen then," the colonel said, gesturing for the lights. "You'll have full access to needed intelligence for your snatch mission. Remember that this is supposed to be a light job. We might be going in with guns, but we are not going to engage unless fired upon."

"_We_, sir?" Jackson asked before he could shut himself up.

He nodded. "That's right. You'll have full JSOC support for this. Blackhawks and offshore support if things go badly. Now then, we've received word that Al-Asad will be touring the coastal facilities for the next two days. Getting a feel for his new country. This is where we'll be grabbing him. Fourteen likely locations. We'd like to hit them simultaneously to grab and then exfiltrate. Captain Sands?"

Sands took the stage as the screen switched to a good view of the Azadi coast. Actually slightly younger than some of the operators, their captain was a competent officer and knew when to leave things to his men. They trusted him, and he trusted them.

"Gents, we're cleared hot. Doesn't mean we're going to be shooting everything that moves. Turns the populace against us. We're Force Recon, and we're better than that. So how're we going to do this?"

Jackson saw the colonel look at the captain for a moment as if in shock before returning to look at the operators. Probably hadn't expected that.

"Sir, we got a company of shooters," Staff Sergeant Troy Barnes said. "Split them up between the locations. We'll need to get to the coast, though."

"Shouldn't be a problem if we insert aerially," Lieutenant George Barlowe said. "Can we get some off-shore artillery to soften the anti-air?" he asked the colonel.

"We've seen that there are several coastal batteries located here, here, and here," the colonel said, circling several positions on the satellite view with a laser pointer. "They can't get proper elevation to hit your birds. Old repurposed artillery really, but cruise missiles should be able to take them out."

"Sir, do we have any idea what forces are waiting?" Corporal James West asked.

"Estimated strength of about a regiment-sized element of fighters," Sands said. "Mix of locals and some hardcore imports. Al-Asad had brought some heavy muscle for his power grab. Chechen snipers, some Filipino gunners, and a shitload of our favorite prey out of Iraq and Afghanistan."

The colonel nodded. "Al-Asad doesn't look like much, and he probably isn't. He's local-born and local-trained. Reports say he was a Republican Army lieutenant before being cashiered. His Caliphate forces aren't the brightest of the bunch, or the most organized. But they've got the raw talent. I'm sure we all remember Fallujah. If he's smart enough, he'll drag this out. Bog us down. Turn the entire country into another Fallujah."

Everyone remembered Fallujah. It had taken months to dislodge the insurgency. Months and too many lives.

"So we go in and mug them for Al-Asad," Sands concluded. "Ninja the man right out from underneath their noses."

Shepherd spoke in the momentary silence. "Just so we're clear, Al-Asad should be taken alive. But if your hand's forced, he shot himself before you reached him. Are we clear, Marines?"

Were they clear about going in and grabbing a tin-pot dictator who had a taste for killing his own? Hell yeah. Getting to shoot the son of a bitch if he refused to cooperate was just a bonus.

"Oorah!" Jackson found himself roaring with the rest of the unit.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 12:18:22**_

_**Ryazan, Russia**_

"You made of iron?" Marko asked as he strapped Gushenko's right shoulder together with the help of some torn cargo webbing and no small amount of speed tape. "Worst case of clavicle fracture I've seen," he remarked to Kamarov as he finished wrapping the silver tape around to immobilize the wound. "Gave him enough codeine to put down an Estonian."

"Only my head," Gushenko said.

"Seen worse," the sergeant said, patting Gushenko's unwounded shoulder.

Gushenko wanted to say something as he turned his head experimentally. He'd been lucky to be alive. Kolya hadn't. The impact had torn the operator away from the netting to fling him through a ragged hole in the wall. The razor-sharp wreckage had finished what the impact started. They had recovered what remained of his body quickly and efficiently, putting as many parts as they could find into the pile to be body-bagged by graves registration. The rest of the team was still alive, which meant that they had a mission to complete.

Checking Gushenko's carbine, Kamarov grunted as he tried to pull the bolt back. "Can you shoot with one arm?"

"Never tried it before, sir," Gushenko said. "Is there a problem?"

"Safety's jammed," Kamarov said, working the safety lever and trying to chamber a round. "Looks like the pins were sheared," he declared after detaching the receiver housing. "Here." He handed him an APB. "Twenty rounds. Selector is on the left side of the slide. There's already a round in the chamber."

He examined the machine pistol with his good hand, turning to examine it from both sides. It wasn't as heavy as he had expected, but it felt like it packed a punch. The suppressor attached to the muzzle would make it a bit harder to maneuver in really close combat, but he had no intention of being caught in that kind of a situation. He set the machine pistol to semi-automatic and got up to look around.

The team was otherwise intact aside from the loss of Kolya. The surviving six had introduced themselves in turn, Anatoly, Boris, Mikhail, Petya, Sergei, and Vanya. They had been called in from a headhunt for Ultranationalist leaders in the neighboring oblast where they had lost a man to an IED.

"Come on," Kamarov said shortly. "We need to get moving before the jackals try having a look. Yakov, on point with me."

"Yes, sergeant," Gushenko said, his words echoed by the rest of the team.

They formed a loose double-file and set out, leaving the smoldering field-decommissioned Hind behind them as they walked into the forest surrounding the complex. Gushenko felt his fear fall away as they walked. It might have been the painkillers, but he no longer had his anxieties about being out in the field. This was where he wanted to be, where he needed to be. He was a soldier. That was reason enough.

* * *

-

* * *

**Author's Rant:** Yep, another chapter and more fun to be had. It should be noted that I'm going to be restructuring the story so it doesn't slavishly follow the events of the game.


	3. Chapter 2

"All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers."

- Francois Fenelon

* * *

_**Day 0 – 14:03:17**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

"Three, two, one, breach, breach, _breach_! Jackson, check right!"

M4 raised, Sergeant Paul Jackson pivoted right around the corner marked out by tape, leading the sweep team. Estimates had seven unfriendlies in this particular room. He stepped forward following an imaginary wall marked out with more tape, his weapon pointed at the center of the room. Seven targets. Eight or nine if they were unlucky. He'd give three rounds maximum to each.

The rest of his team followed in behind him, their carbines up and searching as well. They slid into their assigned sectors before lowering their weapons. Cleared. They had been practicing in one of the hangars, with taped-out "walls" and other boundaries based on in-country assets' surveillance. Jackson looked at his team and then at Lieutenant David Vasquez for approval.

"Roycewicz, tighten up your final sweep some more, and Jackson, I want you more to the right in case Roycewicz goes down," their lieutenant said. "Other than that, I think we've hammered the takedown out. Take five for lunch before we get our gear together for a dry run. Let's see if we can get you guys into a Black Hawk without falling out."

Hooray for garrison chow. Slinging his carbine, Jackson pulled his helmet off to wipe down his shaved scalp with a hand. He wasn't one to complain, but drilling room clearing in a small hangar might not have been the best of ideas. At least they were getting hot chow for their trouble. He wondered how Sarah and the kids were doing just as Corporal Jim Rule landed on his back.

"How're you doing, man?" he asked as he slid off before Jackson could even try punching him. "We got stuck with assisting some limeys."

"Room clearing," he said to the man who had made it through Selection with him. "We're dealing with the SAS? You're sure?"

"As sure as the chow hall's going to be serving something that was boiled in battery acid."

"Sweet," Jackson managed as he walked.

They'd be working with people who made them look like amateurs. Sweet indeed.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 11:45:22**_

_**RAF Hereford, England**_

It was reassuring to see that the elite 22 SAS's food was just as unpalatable as with the Paras and the Artists. MacTavish carefully prodded the chunks of mystery fish with his fork.

"Come on, eat it, Soap," Gaz said, slapping his back with a hearty laugh. "It's not going to bite back. We think."

The doors of the mess were knocked open, and a troop of operators barged in, laughing and chattering. They picked up their plates and headed in to fill them while still dressed in their black kit and carrying MP5 submachine guns. One of them waved to Gaz as he came out with a plate laden with corned beef and everything a growing squaddie needed. The troop streamed over in short order and had the two operators surrounded, chatting animatedly.

"Did you see that shot?"

"We all did, Louie. Try not to spill your food on the table this time, eh?"

"Yeah, well I was just asking, on account of you fucking up the entry. My ears are still ringing."

"Don't tell me," Gaz said to the one that seemed to be in charge. "You lot blew all the doors and windows off the killhouse again, didn't you?"

"Damn right," the bald man said with a grin. "Ryan was bloody _livid_. So who's this new guy here, eh?"

"Boys, meet Soap MacTavish," Gaz said, grinning. "Soap, meet the boys. That's Staff Sergeant Henry Garvie," he said, pointing at the bald man. "If you ever transfer over to his lot, try to stay behind him whenever possible. That man's like a cockroach. Won't die no matter how many bullets the tangos toss at him."

"A pleasure, _Soap_," Garvie said, extending his hand. "We've got to meet up with Blue, but I think we got the time for a question for the new guy. How d'you get a name like Soap anyway?"

_Not again…

* * *

_

_**Day 0 – 12:32:41**_

_**Ryazan, Russia**_

They had made good progress despite keeping to the back routes. It was early fall, the leaves were beginning to turn color. Junior Sergeant Yakov Gushenko didn't have the time to admire them though. A long burst of un-aimed machine gun fire sent him scrambling for better cover. What the Ultranationalists lacked in skill, they tended to make up with enthusiasm. These particular Ultranationalists lacked plenty of skill but were certainly much more enthusiastic. It might have been the fact that they had plenty of ammunition to burn. The bastards had _lots_ of money.

"Yakov! Get ready to move over to us!" Kamarov shouted to him. "Smoke!"

One of the Spetsnaz operators obligingly flung a smoke grenade his way, the metal tube spraying an opaque white smoke.

"Come on, Yakov!" he shouted. "Cover him!"

The other Spetsnaz opened up, their controlled single shots turning into the crackle of automatic fire. Getting up, he sprinted across the open tracks, his un-bandaged arm swinging in the air to maintain some semblance of balance. Fighting on the tracks of a rail line had not been something he had signed on for. Then again nobody in their right minds would have signed up for this. With his shooting arm immobilized thanks to their less-than-stellar landing, his options were limited.

Sliding in behind a stack of weather-warped railroad ties with the rest of the operators, he looked at them. They showed no sign of being overly worried about their current situation, their eyes glued to their sights, occasionally flicking away to find another target. Spent brass flew and bounced off of his fatigues as he scrambled to get a better position.

"RPGs!" Boris shouted. "Down!"

Gushenko ducked with the others as a team of RPG-carrying Ultranationalists tried to ripple-fire them at their cover. The poorly-aimed warheads hissed and shrieked overhead, leaving a corkscrewing white contrail in their wake. Several detonated against the stack, splintering wood and sending a spike of superplastic steel that ignited Marko's fatigues as it grazed him, the sound of the detonations almost overloading Gushenko's eardrums. The team medic put himself out with a frantic pat down, leaving a patch of reddened skin visible through the hole burned in his fatigues.

"I'm okay! I'm okay!" Marko shouted. "Jesus, that _stung_!"

"Yakov! Marko! I am not hearing gunshots!" Kamarov roared as he continued firing. "Anatoly, I want some fire put down thirty meters _that_ way!"

"Yes, Boss!" Anatoly shouted as he adjusted his rifle. "Firing!"

His Kalashnikov's underslung GP-30 bucked hard against his shoulder when he pulled its trigger. Gushenko peeked around the cover to see the shell impact against the side of the truck that the Ultranationalists were using as a troop transport. Its improvised armor was shredded, the shrapnel continuing to gut and dismember anyone still inside the cab. Immediately, Ultranationalist fire picked up. They wouldn't be moving any time soon.

"Again!" Kamarov shouted.

"Firing!"

The second shot had been corrected for range and landed in a much more ideal location behind the hood of the truck. Gushenko could hear screams accompanying the explosion as several of the terrorists were cut apart by the shrapnel. He was aware of Anatoly firing another round even as the other operators cut down the Ultranationalists who attempted to flee their compromised cover. He joined in, his borrowed APB recoiling against his grip as he fired burst after burst at their backs.

"Advance and purge!" Kamarov shouted, the rifle in his hands rattling as he hosed down the position. "Petya! Sergei! Go! Everyone else, suppress!"

"Bounding!" Petya shouted as the two operators sprung from cover.

Suppression fire was more a matter of keeping the enemy's head down rather than taking it off. And for that, the suppressed machine pistol was perfect. Even with one usable hand, Gushenko managed to keep a bead on a wheel well. Petya and Sergei advanced quickly with their weapons at the ready as they ran. Sliding in behind another stack of ties, they gave a thumbs-up to the main group.

"Boris! Mikhail! Go! Suppress!"

The next two burst from cover to sprint for cover up ahead. He felt the machine pistol recoil against his hand again…

* * *

_**Day 0 – 12:02:22**_

_**RAF Hereford, England**_

The heat of fast roping could be easily felt through the thick gloves as MacTavish braced for impact. His boots hit the decking with barely a sound, their soft rubber soles absorbing some of the shock before he stepped away from the rope. His hands reflexively brought his MP5SD3 up from where it hung on its sling, setting it to semi-automatic and centering it on his target. Damned respirator kept getting in the way…

The others landed around him just as silently, weapons up as they crept into position.

"Weapons free, take them."

At Gaz's order, he stroked the trigger twice. With subsonic ammunition, his double-tap sounded like something from an action movie. Dropped his target, though. The others around had fired simultaneously, their submachine guns coughing quietly as they dropped their own targets in a spray of pink mist and meaty red chunks.

"X-rays down," MacTavish heard Corporal Mac Emery say quietly on his right.

"Move in," Gaz said immediately. "Check them."

The black-clad operators swarmed through the two doors, each delivering double-taps to their downed targets. Confirmation on their kills.

"Down we go," Gaz said after he checked his own target. "Soap, take point."

MacTavish nodded and took the lead to head down the stairs. He saw a shadow, correcting and centering his submachine gun before delivering a double-tap. The figure dropped with the pair of rounds impacting center mass. He stepped over it as he continued moving, leaving checking it to one of the operators behind him. There was an entryway on the left. His hand came up, gesturing for the others to hold.

Slicing into the corridor, he waved the others forward. One door, sealed. Gaz's cue. The rest of the five-man team stacked up behind him as their lieutenant set up a door-knocker on the door's knob before stepping back with the primed flashbang in hand. MacTavish tucked his head in and braced. A second later, the door-knocker exploded. The loops of detcord went off and tore a ragged ring around the knob and the locking mechanism.

MacTavish's hand lashed out and pushed the now "unlocked" door open in a cloud of gray smoke. He was aware of Gaz throwing the grenade through the opening, the flashbang detonating a second later within. By the time his ears registered the explosion and the flash of light, MacTavish had already entered the room. Properly braced, he had already acquired his target and stroked his trigger twice as he moved. The x-ray stayed still, chest turned into a red leaking mess by the hollowpoints. The other x-ray went down with similar wounds thanks to the operators flooding the room after him.

"Room clear, two x-rays down," Sergeant Ken Wallcroft said as he double-tapped MacTavish's x-ray.

"Keep it moving," Gaz said as he checked the other x-ray. "One more. Soap, flash. Emery, breach."

A change-up. MacTavish nodded and palmed one of his M84 flashbangs from his vest in preparation. An internal door, unlocked. Emery crept up and grasped the knob as MacTavish pulled the pin from his grenade. At his nod, the door was pulled open. MacTavish was aware of the dull _boom_ of a shotgun going off before he could throw the flashbang into the room. Emery stumbled back with a strangled shout of pain and a beanbag round falling away from his chest.

"Sloppy, sloppy," the voice on the other side said. "Anything to say in your defense, Gaz?"

"No, Captain Price," Gaz said, straightening up. "Good to have you back, sir!" He glanced at MacTavish and everyone else. "Endex, endex, endex! Soap, put the pin back in."

MacTavish nodded and reinserted the pin. Captain Price? Who? The other operators had stripped their respirators off and cleared their weapons while the smoke and dust from the earlier flashbang and breaching charge was still settling. Wallcroft was grinning from ear to ear as he checked Emery over for any lasting damage.

"He's fine, Captain," he said at last. "Nothing but a bruise."

Out from the shadow of the doorway came possibly the burliest and surliest-looking captain MacTavish had ever laid eyes on. Dressed in black kit like the rest of the breaching team, he sported a bristly red beard and a cigar that came to together to make him look like a larger-than-life action movie hero of the eighties. Captain Price. He'd heard the rumors about this guy. A modern day Jimmy Doyle. _And_ his family had history with the Regiment. The other operators nodded or gave him a respectful smile that he returned with a single nod. MacTavish could feel his gaze settle on him. The new guy. Go figure.

"And who's this?" he asked Gaz, jabbing his thumb at MacTavish.

"Just the FNG, sir," Gaz said back. "We call him Soap."

"You call him?" Price said with a snort. "What kind of name is Soap, anyway?"

_For fuck's sake…_

"Uh, long story," Gaz said hurriedly. "He's been assigned to our troop."

"_Our_ troop?" Price said, disbelief clear in his tone. "How'd a muppet like him make it through Selection?"

"_Really_ long story," Gaz said. "Now how about we do this over again, sir? Without shotgunning young Emery?"

"Fine with me, Gaz," Price said, chuckling. "Get it cleaned up, lads."

MacTavish groaned with the other three operators and started to pull their respirators back on and clear out the stacks of watermelons that had stood in for live x-rays. The air smelled of smokeless powder and caramelizing sugar. Tasty.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 14:07:52**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

"All I'm saying is that we're being misallocated," Roycewicz said over a mouthful of whatever the chowder stuff was supposed to be. "We're a reconnaissance unit, so where's the recon in this job? Delta's doing that crap, so where're we?"

"We're here, stuck with tiny-ass helmets," Vasquez said, sitting down next to him with his tray. "How're you boys doing? Paul?"

Jackson nodded to his commander as he made room for his tray. "Warm grub? Not being shot at? This is heaven for me, sir."

And it was. Short of being home with his wife and daughter at least. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open to have a look. It'd have to go into storage if and when they were deployed, but he still had it right then. The picture had been taken on Deirdre's eighth birthday a week after he'd been granted medical leave on account of the three bullets that had found themselves in his upper chest. He'd been lucky that time, and he'd made sure to hug his kids extra tight when he'd gotten out of the hospital, pain or no pain from the still-sore wounds. That had been two years ago, but he still remembered his littlest one's words.

_"I love you, Daddy."_

"Hey, what's with the family pictures, huh? It's bad luck!" Roycewicz said, leaning over to look.

"We're not in a movie," Jackson said, smiling. "And I've looked at it before every op for two years now. Not a scratch."

"And what do you call falling out of the Osprey then?" Vasquez asked, trying hard to suppress his own laughter.

"We were two meters off the tarmac!"

* * *

_**Day 0 – 13:48:54**_

_**Ma'a Seaport, Azadi Republic**_

Part of the new infrastructure put in when President Al-Fulani had taken power, the Ma'a Seaport was the pride of the coast. The Azadi traditionally maintained a grip on the majority of the flow of commerce through the Persian Gulf dating back centuries. What had previously been enforced with an advantageous placement of blackpowder cannon and well-placed facilities had been replaced with state of the art coastal-defense batteries and bleeding-edge port facilities to entice customers and warn off anyone stupid enough to approach the port without authorization or proper papers. Despite declarations to the contrary, piracy tended to still be a problem, but either an anti-shipping missile or a short barrage with the smaller guns usually put an end to those ambitions.

But the four men seated across the street from the entrance of the main defensive battery didn't care much for what commercial opportunities awaited if they signed a long-term shipping contract with the new Azadi authorities. Even if they were official representatives of the Pacific Corporation. The local rep they had trying to sell them was just a smokescreen. It was the other two men unnoticed by the pervasive security camera coverage that they were concerned about. They had to keep the shill interested while they worked. On the other hand, the coffee that the café they were meeting at was as close to perfect as could be.

"And you are assured a most secure-" the rep started to finish his pitch before being cut off.

"How secure are the storage facilities again?" one of the men asked, taking a sip of his coffee. "We're not looking to have someone breaking in and pawing through sensitive documents while we're here getting gassed up."

"Only the latest in security technology is used. We update our equipment every fifth year to assure this," the rep said smugly. He'd checked out the orders himself in case a prospective customer asked. And these were strange customers. Possibly the strangest he'd seen with their pseudo-casual clothing and rough hands. "Filtered CCTV cameras linked to motion detectors. Those in turn are connected to the largest civilian server farm in the Middle East. We can run shape-recognition and biometric scans faster than some government agencies can."

"Is there any way of verifying this ourselves?" one of the other men asked as he watched a Caliphate soldier walk past, glaring at the four of them. "Our boss would be displeased to find out that our most important documents are insecure during transport, to say the least."

"_I have sinned dear Father, Father I have sinned…_"

"Pardon me," the first of the corporate representatives said, reaching into his pocket to withdraw his cellphone. He flipped it open and brought it to his ear to listen for a few seconds before nodding and glancing at the other men. "Excuse us, but we must leave soon," he told the rep. "Perhaps if you could hold a package for us as a demonstration of capability? We are definitely interested."

"Certainly, certainly," he said hurriedly. "What do you have in mind?"

"We were on our way to deliver a diplomatic pouch to a data-recovery firm," the lead representative said. "Observe."

Another of the representatives lifted his arm, attached to which was a gigantic black suitcase that he hoisted onto the table with no small effort.

"Twenty hard drives, all unreadable," their leader said. "Until our deal with the firm fell through, they were bound to be reassembled. Now they are barely worth more than their weight in scrap." He scrutinized the local rep. He couldn't even remember his name. "Now how about letting us store this package in your facilities as a test?"

"Certainly," the rep said, head bobbing rapidly as he could sense the cinching of the deal coming up. "Please, follow me."

Captain Robert Wilkerson smiled and nodded to Staff Sergeant Charles Gutierrez, Master Sergeant Michael Shawn, and Sergeant First Class Robert Brown. This shill was doing all the hard work for them. Once they had this site prepped, they had two more spots to visit to open up the corridor.

"Lead the way," he said.

Miles to go, and positioning system transmitters to plant…

* * *

_**Day 0 – 14:06:29**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

Pacing had a certain appeal to it. Steven Shepherd rubbed his chin as he looked down at the maps laid out in front of him. With an entire division of Marines on hand for an operation, he had more firepower at his fingertips than a third world army. As Army, he tended more toward slower-moving operations. A steady advance with plenty of support. The Pentagon didn't mind it, but Washington didn't want that. Neither did the press. And the press trumped the Pentagon, same with the bigwigs in Washington. They liked rapid shows of force. Shock and awe. Anything for a sound bite.

Which left him with a problem.

Going in fast was probably better left to the younger "maneuver warfare" crowd. The ones who had taken the forefront in the last decade were better suited for an extremely public offensive. They could make sense of the whole high mobility campaign that stretched supply lines and made for combat ineffective troops in the long run. Those staffers seemed to be pulling their plans straight out of their asses for the sake of the publicity. Movies, television, books… Who knew? Maybe someone would make a game about this like they had with all of the previous wars. It seemed to be in the vogue anyway.

"We should be moving in under the cover of darkness," he said.

"No way," Bob the Consultant said. Some sort of high-ranking public relations guy attached to the White House. Spewed the party line. Hell, he probably _wrote_ the party line. It didn't stop him from sounding like a smug snake out of the middle of Texas, though. "You're going to have the eyes of the entire media on your movements. By extension, the American and international public are going to be watching and waiting. A night battle would be disadvantageous to getting the public on our side. Daylight is our friend with the mass media."

Shepherd grimaced, stiffening. Did this prick just suggest what he thought he suggested? And the bureaucratic prick had already made his position plenty clear about how the Beltway had such a hard-on for maneuver warfare. People like him were going to get good kids killed with his machinations.

"Sir, you're asking me to send men through a border in the middle of the day. Without proper armor support for the breaching teams, we'd be wasting lives just trying to get close to the positions."

"One word: Tomahawk."

"And then we'd have to get spotters in position, and the border's pretty well patrolled," Shepherd said, shaking his head. "_And_ it might be overkill considering the size of the border stations. The Caliphate's crazy, not stupid."

"And why don't we bypass the stations entirely?"

"Because the crazies had days to lay down a thorough minefield all along the borders," Shepherd said, pulling several photos from the loose pile. "Look. Fresh tracks that you could only get with heavy machinery. Someone's been working the ground there. The Azadi Republic's a small country. Not much effort's needed to seed the entire border with a bad case of mines."

"What about those, uh, those mine clearing charges?"

Did this idiot even know what he was talking about? "Insufficient range. As it is, they would be put to better use taking down berms or city-fighting. We're going to have to meet them head on with a pincer strike from the Gulf and Saudi soil. Possibly Kuwait and Qatar. We've got good relations with them, right?"

"You would be meeting them on their own terms?" Bob more declared than asked, spluttering. "That would be suicide!"

Shepherd growled audibly. "What do you _want_, Bob? We could JDAM the targets needed, but who's cleaning up afterwards? A MOAB _would_ probably look _really good_ on TV, but you'd be dropping them on civilian population centers to get the Caliphate's forces. Shock and awe's a flawed strategy. You want me to follow it, I _will_, but you'll regret it." He thought about it for a second before sweeping the majority of the papers off of the table to reveal the illuminated map underneath it all. "We punch through the borders as quickly as possible. If we can keep them reeling, maybe we can pull this off without a hitch."

* * *

_**Day 0 – 13:24:22**_

_**Ryazan, Russia**_

"Adrenaline's a bitch, huh?"

Already wide-eyed and riding the knife's edge of adrenaline, Gushenko jerked around at Mikhail's voice. His trigger finger slipped itself out of the trigger guard when he realized who the speaker was. He nodded, trying to ignore the sound of impacting artillery in the not too distant rail yard.

After cutting through much of the city thanks to the rail line, the Spetsnaz team had set up shop in a partially bombed-out commercial building. With the rest of the unit providing security, Kamarov and Petya had set up the OSV-96 that they had been carrying. Right then, it was a matter of making sure nobody, or at least no Ultranationalist stumbled upon the blind. Even if one of them did, they wouldn't make it past the MON-90 command-detonated anti-personnel mines that had been arrayed around the building.

"I wish he'd get on with it," Marko said as he treated Boris's wounded arm. "Of course I also wish for a pair of nubile blondes and enough vodka to preserve a corpse. But that's not here is it?"

Gushenko managed a chuckle with the rest of the team before he returned to watching out over the parking lot. This deep in enemy territory, they had to be careful. It wasn't the first time he'd met Spetsnaz, but the previous times the operators had all acted coldly aloof. It was odd to be sitting here with them in a bombed out building, just bantering to pass the time. Even more strangely, none of them seemed to be reflecting or talking much on the death of their teammate. But it was the lulls in combat that got to him. Too much time to think and reflect.

"What's the deal with these Ultranationalists anyway?" Boris asked suddenly. "Don't those idiots know that Comrade Stalin is dead? What's with all of the fucking hammer and sickle bullshit?"

"Kids these days," Vanya said after a minute, shaking his head with a smirk plastered on his face. "In my opinion, it's all of that gangster rap and video games that's leading this sort of nonsense. You drop one of those-"

The machine gunner's words were drowned out by a loud _crack_ that could probably be heard for blocks around if it weren't for the gunfire.

Kamarov burst through, followed closely by Patya. "Let's go! Let's go! We've got a minute before they backtrack!"

Immediately the Spetsnaz operators sprang into motion, what little gear they had quickly policed up. Weapons were rechecked and radio equipment pulled back onto assault vests. Gushenko had not had the inclination or ability to drop his own pack so it was only a matter of rolling onto his feet. There was a muffled pop followed by hissing and the odor of burning metal and plastic. Thermite grenade then. There were always more materiel, but well-trained snipers were too rare to waste humping gear out of the area of operations.

"Pick-up's in thirty minutes," Kamarov said.

"Shall we?" Marko asked Gushenko, smiling tightly as he finished packing his medical kit.

The Spetsnaz team melted into the shadows again, leaving behind only a ruined large-bore sniper rifle in their wake. That, and a freshly decapitated local command of the Ultranationalists. Large thin-skinned petrol bunkers and armor-piercing incendiary rounds tend not to mix well. The team would have time to review their actions later. For now they had a flight to catch out of hostile territory.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 14:59:51**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

Watching yet another C-130 cargo plane land, Lieutenant Ian Hall took a drink from the can of near beer he'd liberated from the mess. His crew was all prepped for the go order, and had been for the last dozen hours. Unlike the prima donnas of Force Reconnaissance, Marine armor knew their schedule and stuck to it.

He'd never seen a mobilization like this before, though. The last three hours had seen a full two regiments of Marines be offloaded onto the increasingly crowded base before spilling out onto the international airport along with mingling with the local detachment of the French Foreign Legion. There was more firepower concentrated on a single airfield than probably anywhere else even during Fleet Week.

The whole mess reminded him of the lead-up to OIF-1. The fuss, the rush. Except this was all of that compressed into an even smaller window of activity. And who knew? Maybe they had better justification this time. A lifelong "bleeding heart," Hall was one of the mustangs, rising up from being just a corporal to captain thanks to OCS. It made him few friends with the other officers, but he was like a superstar with the enlisted. One side saw him as an uppity NCO while the other side saw him as an example of what could happen if they set themselves on a goal. Commanding nearly a thousand tons of warfighting materiel wasn't too bad either.

The radio sitting next to him squawked. "All First Battalion commanders, conference with Wild Card in five."

Finishing off the last of his can, Hall crumpled the thin metal container into a lump. The sharp metal could barely even scratch the thick calluses on his hands from years of working around tanks. Dropping it into the empty ammunition box that served as an impromptu trash can, he slid off of the top of "War Pig," his M1A2 Abrams.

"I'll be back, so save me a beer," he said to Staff Sergeant Valentine Pierce, his driver. "Let's see what sort of clusterfuck we're being tossed into…"

"Maybe we're going to be invading somewhere cool! Like Chicks in Bikinis Land!" Corporal Joshua Wilson said from where he was catching some rays on the radiator. "But no," he added after a moment. "We'd never get that lucky."

"Keep dreaming, but I want your mind on the targets if we get into a brawl," Hall said, laughing. "See y'all in a bit."

Leaving his crew behind, he walked across the dusty tarmac. He walked past the other tanks of the First Tank Battalion of the First Marine Division. He walked past the Marines practicing and zeroing-in their weapons on the temporary ranges set up shortly after the mobilization. He walked past naval flight officers and naval aviators talking by their AH-1Z "Zulu" Cobras and CH-53 Sea Stallions. All of them were ready and willing to bring the fight to whoever tried to start some shit with them. A vector of death and destruction.

"Hey, Ian, you know what's going on?" Lieutenant Juan Mendez asked, jogging up. A Mexican-American, he was a head shorter than Hall's five foot eleven and just about the perfect tank commander in terms of size and knowledge.

"Probably getting our marching orders," Hall said. "Your guys get enough sleep on the flight over?"

"Yeah, but not nearly enough," Mendez said. "What the hell are we doing here? Djibouti's a long way from Iraq _or_ Afghanistan. I think I saw the rest of the expeditionary unit being loaded as well."

They continued walking past the F-35 interceptors of the Marine Expeditionary Force's aviation combat element. The government had probably worked out a deal with the Djibouti government to house the troops. There was no way in hell they'd let this many Marines in-country at once. And the sooner they were out of here, the better. It might have been just Hall, but the place stank to high heaven.

Possibly hundreds of new tents had sprung up overnight to house the force, spilling out over the wire into the surrounding area. Anywhere what could be converted into housing on-base was converted. The MPs would have their work cut out for them for sure.

Eventually they found themselves nearing the actual permanent buildings of the base. There were more officers milling around here, wearing their shiny metal rank insignia since they weren't in a combat theater. Mostly Marine officers too, judging from the sea of desert MARPAT. There were some ACUs visible as well, but most of that was combined with a mismatch of gear. Special forces types.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The voice sounded unmistakably English, like something out of a James Bond film. Hall turned to find himself looking at a group of soldiers wearing something similar to Multicam fatigues. Their leader had closely-trimmed hair that was starting to go gray.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked, looking at them and their gear. Special forces as well, considering their exotic loadout.

"Do you know where the Force Reconnaissance teams are?" the leader of the group asked, looking around. "We were told to meet them here."

"Uh, you might have better luck asking the guys over there," Mendez said, pointing at what might have been a team of special forces. "We're just tankers."

"Right. Thanks," he said, patting his shoulder and walking past with the rest of the team or whatever they were.

Hall looked at Mendez, who shrugged. They had a meeting to get to.

* * *

-

* * *

**Author's Rant**: Took a while, but it's up! Chip away and critique to your heart's content.


	4. Chapter 3

"Any military commander who is honest will admit he makes mistakes in the application of military power."

-Robert McNamara

* * *

_**Day 0 – 23:13:52**_

_**Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska**_

"Rise and shine, lads," Captain Price barked, banging on the benches with the stock of his L119A1. "Waiting's not going to make the storm go away!"

Slowly, and complaining loudly, Bravo Troop got to their feet. Just as they had finally caught some sleep in the ludicrously noisy Hercules transport. A cold gust blowing up into the cargo bay got them all up quickly, grabbing their gear bags. The offloading process went quickly with the five operators zipping up their all-black Nomex assault suits and walking out into the darkness with their gear in hand.

It was dark, fluffy snow swirling around the runway. Sergeant John MacTavish pulled his tuque down around his ears as he looked at their welcoming party. They looked like operators, probably Pararescue Jumpers. United States Air Force, with possibly the toughest selection process in the world. A joint operation?

"Pleased to have you back, Captain," one of the Americans said, extending his hand. "You're a bit short."

"Good to be back," Price said, shaking his hand. "Unforeseen circumstances."

It was more like they had been reallocated for another operation.

"Shame. You have the package?"

Price jerked a thumb at the bags that the SAS operators were offloading. "It's with the rest of the bags."

"Great. We've got some hot chocolate inside," the operator said, clapping Price's shoulder. "Take 'em over here!" he shouted at the SAS operators as he, Captain Price, and Gaz walked off.

"Oh yeah, leave _us_ with the work, why don't you," Sergeant Ken Wallcroft grumbled as he pulled one of the metal cases out. "Oi, Soap, give me a hand here!"

"Coming!" MacTavish said, hurrying over.

* * *

_**Day 0 – 21:44:17**_

_**Mamlaka, Azadi Republic**_

Despite the massive patrols of Caliphate troops, it was still possible to wander around the capital city with impunity. All you needed was a good quiet weapon and a bit of strength to apply yourself to the job.

The man slowly stopped struggling as the garrote broke skin and worked inwards. Captain Robert Wilkerson maintained a bead on the dying man while Master Sergeant Michael "Gramps" Shawn pulled even tighter. First rule of taking out patrols, ignore all of the Hollywood bullshit of a guy sneaking up behind the guard and breaking his neck. Suppressed weapons were preferred. Garrotes were nice, too. And you worked in pairs just in case the takedown guy fucked up, his buddy would be standing by to shoot the target.

That wasn't necessary this time. After a few more seconds, the soldier stopped struggling. Shawn maintained his grip and pulled some more just to make sure. The thin wire of the garrote finally found the artery, slicing it open to spray Shawn's arm with bright red arterial blood. Some dust and air would keep that from being an issue. Unwinding the garrote, the operator lowered the dead body to the ground gently. Already the body had begun voiding itself, the rooftop smelling of smoke, piss, and shit now. Death was hardly clean.

"We're good," Shawn said after stripping the guard of his ammunition.

Another misconception is the silent night. Nights are not silent. Particularly in a city. _Especially_ in a city that had paramilitary forces conducting something akin to an ethnic cleansing. The streets were alive with gunfire and screams. Most of the westerners had made the smart choice of getting the hell out of Dodge before nightfall, but who ever said that special forces types were smart? They still had a job to finish here.

The unit had a few more beacons to plant as well as one more high-priority target to locate. They took the smart route with all of the violence on the streets, they traveled by rooftops. Currently in the market district of the city, they had to be more subtle with sentry removal. The usual work of putting a round in the back of their head was nice and all, but as far as they had seen, none of the locals carried too many weapons openly. Especially not with Western cartridges. Makarovs and Warsaw Pact weapons were the order of the day, even if the Caliphate had gotten into the stores of old Azadi G3 clones.

"Keep moving," Wilkerson said.

No other words were needed. Something large exploded nearby, an orange-white fireball rising into the air and casting even more shadows. The operators moved along the rooftops like dusty ghosts, fanning out but staying close enough for their hand signals to be visible. They soon reached the other side of the building and were looking down at an intersection.

Dozens of uniformed and armed men rushed around the intersection, a broad junction between five major streets. They were setting up sandbags and directing trucks and "Zeus" ZSU-23-4 anti-air tracks for fighting positions. Where were they getting this materiel? The last government had scrapped most of it. Wilkerson brought his field glasses up to scan the crowds. The Caliphate yahoos were even better armed than he'd expected.

And just like magic, there the high-priority target was, coordinating the placement of anti-air defenses in the middle of the madness. He'd been easily picked out as the lone guy in the crowd who wasn't wearing a shemagh or sporting a 'stache. Bad choice for him. Good for them.

"JT, we've got a possible on the last HVT," Wilkerson said quietly into his headset.

The voice came back rather quickly. Probably because the unit commander was sitting out in Djibouti and soaking in the rays while his old buddies did the heavy lifting. "Understood. Take him if you got him. Your discretion, just make it look right."

"Got it," Wilkerson said. "He's out of the picture." He waved over Bob Brown and his stubby M109. "Seed them. Triangle. Then the boss," he said, pointing out the HVT.

"Copy," Brown said as he crawled up. "Extra-crispy?"

"You do know how I like it. Nine o'clock. Zeus by the sandbags. Crushed blue car behind it. Engage on my mark."

Brown adjusted his rifle slightly, tweaking the scope dials. "Copy that. On target."

"Mark."

Wilkerson was aware of the anti-materiel rifle going off with a thunderous crack right next to him. He could feel the rush of superheated gas slap his face like a warm dry blanket stinking of cordite. But he didn't care. There were more important things to check for, like the fall of the round.

Brown's first round was damn well placed. The M109 was recently put into SOCOM-issue, firing a massive twenty-five millimeter shell that put the old fifty-caliber rifles to shame in sheer takedown ability. A fifty-caliber round could horribly maim if the shooter somehow didn't land a killshot. A twenty-five millimeter shell skipped the maiming part in favor of explosive filler. There was no such thing as a wounding shot with the M109.

Bullet drop was a problem, but not as much of one when you were engaging targets barely an eighth of your rifle's engagement range away. The round flew true. Wilkerson could catch barely a flicker as the specialty armor-piercing incendiary shell engaged the side-armor of the Zeus that carried half of its autocannon ammunition. That went over well. The cook-off of the ammunition stores lit the intersection up nicely, flames jetting from compromised hatches as the inside of the SPAAG turned into an oven. Whoever was inside wouldn't be dramatically crawling out and screaming for help. They couldn't, really. But now that the entire group's attention was drawn…

"Good hit," Wilkerson said. "Next, twelve o'clock. Sixty meters. Crates with the barrels next to them."

Brown grunted an affirmative. "On target."

"Mark."

The M109 went off again. It was a bit easier to see the fall of this one. Wilkerson saw a Caliphate soldier twist as his upper torso was torn nearly clean from his waist. Too soft to detonate. The stacks of ammunition crates on the other hand? Not too soft.

"Good hit." Wilkerson adjusted his binoculars as the ammunition cooked off, throwing the soldiers into even more chaos. "Next, two-thirty. News van. Nothing fancy, just decommission its crew and the camera."

"On target."

"Mark."

Ordinarily, shooting a news crew fell under the heading of "Hope you like Leavenworth food." But news crews generally didn't struggle to set up a basic camera rig. The armbands and Kalashnikovs were also a pretty good indicator that they weren't really kosher either.

Brown knew how to pick his targets. He'd waiting for them to get in close before firing. One of the "reporters" went down missing his left arm. The guy behind him caught the shell in the upper chest, punching through him as if he were made of wet paper. It finally met sufficient resistance against the side of the camera, its incendiary core going off with a second thunderclap of sound. Needle-thin fragments tore open faces at eye-level, dropping the last man with shrapnel burrowing through his eyes and into his brain. One camera, one enemy news crew, down.

"New target. HVT. Thirty meters, center of it all."

"On target."

Wilkerson licked his chapped lips. He needed some water. Plenty of time for that after this. "Mark."

* * *

_**Day 0 – 23:30:06**_

_**Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska**_

It didn't look like they'd need much breaching equipment for the job. MacTavish sat, watching the scrolling layouts of the ship. Nothing quite like a midnight inspection to make your day. Or night. Stifling a yawn, he looked at the known variables. Ship's crew was likely armed to the teeth, approximately seventy of them. They were carrying dry goods. Which was slang for "fuck all if we know." Estonian registry but Russian crew.

"Thoughts on insertion points?" Captain Price asked, pacing in front of the projection.

"Two-point insertion?" Sergeant Wallcroft asked quietly from behind his mug of cocoa. "We could put one team in at the bow and one at the stern."

"No way," Corporal Malcolm Emery said. "We do that, we're risking crossfire. Where's the comms hub?"

"Not much of one, but wiring indicates that it'll be up at near the prow with most of the wossnames, eh, the bridge," Gaz said, pulling up the schematics. "Insert here?" His laser pointer circled a small station at the prow of the ship. He glanced at the Americans. "You Yanks can jam shipboard commo, right?"

The Special Operations Aviation Regiment fliers who had slipped into the room only gave a thumbs-up, the cocky bastards. Then again, MacTavish had seen some of their flying first-hand back in Afghanistan. They'd flown straight into the thick of it to deliver much-needed supplies and aid to troops and to pull them out of hot spots as well. Having the United States' Army 160th SOAR and Air Force Pararescue Jumpers was certainly a nice touch. Extraction was likely to be going off without a hitch with these nutters on the job.

"Sir, what are we going to be doing about the ship?"MacTavish asked. "I mean, seeing as we're going to be doing a quiet rummage in international waters, I think it might raise a few questions if someone finds us. No point in repeating a Southampton, aye?"

"Ships are lost in bad weather all the time, Soap," Gaz said with a possibly exaggerated yawn. "We just need to worry about the rummage. Leave the other shit to the politicals."

"Language, Gaz," Price chided. "Soap, crew is considered expendable for the operation. We've brought enough plastique to send the freighter to the moon twice over."

MacTavish barely stopped himself in time from whistling. His time over with the Artists had been enlightening, but he'd never been in on a no-prisoners operation. It was strange to realize that he didn't, or more accurately, _couldn't_ muster much of a reaction to the news. Only faint admiration for the amount of ordnance they had carried along for the operation. He shook the odd feeling off. He'd have to worry about all it later. There was a mission to plan.

"Right. So we drop in, shoot the buggers manning the commo, and then we perform the rummage, right?" Sergeant Jem Lovejoy asked. "Are we looking somewhere specific?"

"We've got Geigers for a reason," Price said. He walked up to the projection and tapped the stern. "Informant says he can't be absolutely sure, but the package will be in one of the rear holds. Kriegler wasn't too keen on disagreeing either."

"Great, we get to clear a whole bloody shipdeck?" Trooper Troy Griffen asked; his head cocked to the side while he spoke. "Do we at least get air support, sir?"

"It's what the Americans are here for, isn't it?" Wallcroft said, kicking the back of Griffen's seat. "I think we're good to go here, Captain."

Price looked over his team and nodded. "Gaz, you, Wallcroft, and Griffen stay high and dry while we clear the LZ. Lovejoy, Emery, Soap, with me. We'll handle the bridge."

"You've got it, Captain," Gaz said, his tone of voice suggesting that he would have preferred to be with the rest of the bridge team instead of loitering in the Black Hawk.

"Yes, Captain," Lovejoy and Soap said almost automatically and simultaneously.

"Pack light," Prince said. "I want short controlled bursts. Dismissed."

* * *

_**Day 0 – 23:11:58**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

"Can't sleep?"

Sergeant Paul Jackson turned to see Staff Sergeant Marcus Griggs as he walked up next to him, watching the incoming cargo planes. Despite the hour, they were still landing, disgorging supplies and men for the coming invasion. There was no other term for what they were going to be doing. Both operators had sat through the briefings and knew what had they were supposed to be doing soon. That had been decided down to the hour and minute. So now they waited.

"No, Staff Sergeant," Jackson said as he slid over on the bleachers to make room for Griggs. "You neither?"

"Got to make sure everyone's bedded down for the night," Griggs said, sitting down before offering him a styrofoam cup. "I think it's milk."

Jackson took the cup and returned to watching the landing planes with his platoon sergeant. Compared to Jackson's blue-collar family man, Marcus Griggs was the opposite. Or at least he would likely have been if he hadn't joined the Corps. By all accounts, Griggs was better suited for an officer than enlisted, even in Force Reconnaissance. He had a Masters in foreign policy, and a bachelor's degree in both psychology and history. And according to him, he had minored in education as well. And yet despite this, he was the consummate party animal on liberty. His saving grace was his unnatural capability in the field. "Work hard, party hard" seemed to summarize Marcus Griggs to everyone who knew him.

"So we're the liberators again, huh?" Griggs said suddenly. "I could have sworn we're _still_ in Iraq and Afghanistan."

"Looks like it," Jackson said, taking a sip of the cup's contents. It tasted like condensed milk with warm water added to it. "Where'd you get this shit?"

"Mess," Griggs said. "Problem?"

"It's a bit thick," he said, swirling the contents slowly. "So you and the LT worked with the SAS before?" he asked, referring to the earlier briefing.

Griggs nodded. "Yeah, but not with these guys." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his wallet and produced a small Polaroid. "Here."

The picture had to have been maybe a few years old. There were Lieutenant Vasquez and Griggs with two men, both wearing some of the most tacticool shit Jackson had ever seen. One of them sported a broad moustache, the other one looked more some of the unit operators Jackson had met before, just a bit more cheerful. On the top of it all was scribbled "Who Dares, Wins. Thanks for the memories!"

"Nice," Jackson said before returning it. "So how do you think this'll go?"

"Shit, it'll be like invading Dubai or something," Griggs said, clapping his shoulder. "We're Force Recon. What could go wrong, Sergeant?"

Jackson chuckled and took another sip of the faux-milk. They sat there, watching as the American war machine was unloaded and prepared for war.

* * *

_**Day 1 – 01:23:30**_

_**Bering Strait, International Waters**_

"Baseplate, this is Hammer Two-Four. We have visual on the target. ETA sixty seconds," the co-pilot of the MH-60L DAP reported.

"Baseplate copies, Two-Four."

The snow had magically transformed into rain on the flight over to the ship. MacTavish shifted in his seat next to the Direct Action Penetrator's autocannon. If things got busy while he was next to the monster, he'd likely get a nasty nosebleed from the overpressure. Again. He still could remember that incident in Tora Bora only too well.

There was another flash of lightning. First day on the job and he was already heading out for a no-witnesses operation in the middle of not only the middle of nowhere, but also in a damned thunderstorm. It figured he'd have that sort of luck. Another flash illuminated the ship they were going to be rummaging. Mid-sized. It looked worse for the wear, the storm having already smashed some of the deck's cargo containers together.

At least their black kit protected them from the howling icy wind. The headsets they wore were just another perk, filtering out the upper-range sounds while amplifying the little things like someone taking the safety off of a weapon. But then there was the fact that MacTavish's talk-through filters had stopped working just when they had taken off meant that the deafening wind was only reduced to a dull roar for him thanks to the excellent seal, saving his hearing some while still allowing him to hear anything said on the radio. But it also mean he couldn't pick up the more sensitive sounds. Worst come to worst, he'd leave the set onboard before hitting the deck.

Coming alongside the freighter, the operators could see a lone two-man patrol seemingly meandering around the deck. They could also see the weapons they carried. Thankfully the illuminating flashes of lightning weren't enough to give away their bird, even though they were practically on top of them. Some people really _were_ selectively oblivious.

"Thirty seconds, going black," the copilot called over the radio when they began the final approach.

"Okay, skeleton crew and a security detail," Price said, likely just to remind everyone. "Crew expendable. Just find the package and extract it and ourselves. Check your corners and watch yourselves. Masks on." He flicked his cigar stub out into the wind.

MacTavish's hands reflexively found the gas mask and pulled it up over his face and checked the seal before checking his submachine gun. The Heckler & Koch MP5SD6 was seen as a dinosaur by a number of operators, but there was nothing better when it came to quiet takedowns with minimal fuss. Loaded with hollowpoints, they'd make a mess of anyone.

"Ten seconds. Radio check," the copilot reported. "Going to secure channel."

The rain whipped against his mask and dripped off the narrow brim of his helmet, beading and rolling off his assault suit. Time to go.

"Weapon check," Price said. Raising his own L119A1, he performed a rapid function and brass check before sliding it out of his way for the insertion.

MacTavish never particularly liked fast-roping, but a mission was a mission. Tugging the charging handle of his MP5 back, he chambered a round before pulling his roping gloves over his relatively thin Nomex flight gloves. They'd keep his hands nice and unscarred by the friction of the fast-rope. Pushing his submachine gun out of the way, MacTavish glanced down at the ship. The gunship had come alongside the bow by the bridge, quiet enough in the raging storm. Slowing, the crew stabilized the MH-60 over the deck like it had been tethered.

"Green light! On target!" the pilot shouted. "Go, go, go!"

Immediately the ropes were spooled out of the open compartment. MacTavish could see them tumble towards the deck. Taking a breath through his respirator, he leaned forward and grabbed the thickly-braided rope. He only had to push himself forward slightly before he found himself dangling in the middle of the storm. An inappropriate joke involving RPGs and marketplaces rose in his mind as he slid down the ropes with Captain Price and Lovejoy.

It was over before he knew it. His rubber-soled boots hit the deck as he pulled his MP5 forward into a ready position while ducking underneath the window. The storm was even worse on the deck. Price and Lovejoy were already moving into position to fire. This was probably going to be the easiest part of the entire operation.

"Weapons free," Price said clearly in MacTavish's headset.

Rising up, MacTavish already had his submachine gun set to automatic by the time he acquired his first target. The MP5 practically purred as he stroked the trigger twice to fire two short bursts. Lovejoy's MP5's report wasn't even audible with the storm. But the result of their fire was quite evident. The glass of the bridge windows shattered as they were shot out. The skeleton bridge crew didn't even have a chance to react before they were torn apart by hollowpoint rounds.

"Bridge secure," Lovejoy hissed.

_ You think? We only just shot the whole place to shit…_

"Hold your fire," Price said. "Gaz, stay on the bird until we secure the deck."

"Roger that," Gaz said, a mixture of relief and disappointment in his response.

"On me," Price said. "MacTavish, door."

"On it," MacTavish said, approaching the door.

Grabbing the wheel, he glanced over at the rest of the team as they stacked up. Thumbs up. Ready. Two turns and he pulled the door back. Immediately they swarmed in, weapons up. He could hear Price and Lovejoy policing the bodies with quick bursts and the rattle of a weapon being kicked away from dead hands.

"Clear," Price announced. "Come on."

MacTavish swung in, stepping over the pebble-sized fragments of broken glass that had begun to mix in with the blood and rainwater. The bodies had been checked thoroughly. He noted that all three crewmen had their heads perforated with bursts of hollowpoints that had turned them into something reminiscent of a smashed pumpkin with the vague shape of a human head. Torsos as well. Visibly smaller wounds with those, thanks to Price's carbine.

At Price's signal, they descended into the deck below. Lit with only sodium vapor lamps, the ladder and hallway were bathed in a yellow-orange glow. MacTavish picked up the lead for this one. The lamps also illuminated the sole occupant of the hallway. Roughly in his mid-forties, he staggered not because of the yawing of the ship but because of the positively enormous bottle of liquor in his hand. He was singing something just as MacTavish stroked the trigger of his submachine gun. No prisoners. Not for this.

"Last call," Lovejoy said quietly from behind him.

"Bottoms up," Emery responded, his words followed by the distinctive rustle of their assault suit gloves smacking against each other.

"Hallway clear," Price said. "Room to the right. MacTavish, Lovejoy."

The door indicated was open. No need to breach. Both operators carefully sliced into the room, taking a section at a time. Two x-rays, both sleeping. At Lovejoy's nod, they fired in unison. The rounds stitched the sleeping forms, putting them to a more permanent sort of sleep. Blood seeped out of the holed blankets to drip on the deck below.

"Sweet dreams," Lovejoy said with a snort. "Sleep tight, tossers."

"Quarters clear," MacTavish reported.

"Move it up," Price said. "Hammer, you are cleared to drop."

"Copy that, Bravo," the co-pilot said. "Forward deck is clear! Greenlight on Alpha! Go, go, go!"

Price led the element out of another hatch back into the downpour. The gunship hovered overhead, disgorging the rest of the SAS troop. They descended on the ropes to quickly hit the deck and spread out in the rain to form a defensive position. Gaz walked over with his sawed-down shotgun to clap Price's shoulder before readying his own carbine. MacTavish snorted, shaking his head. The lieutenant liked the G36 too much for his own good. It was nice, he supposed, to see him tooling about with different kit.

"Ready, sir," Gaz said.

"Fan out," Price then said. "Three meter spread. Watch yourselves."

They split into two elements; Price taking the right with MacTavish and Lovejoy, Gaz on the left with Griffen, Wallcroft, and Emery. MacTavish adjusted his MP5's stock before joining his captain in the sweep.

Staying in the shadows was difficult with the flashing lightning that constantly changed where the shadows were. Combined with the constantly-yawing deck that was now dangerously slippery with the downpour, MacTavish had a hard time keeping his bearings as he moved. At least they didn't need to do a thorough search of the containers they passed by as they cleared the deck. _That_ would have been an utter nightmare.

The storm had knocked several of the cargo containers out of their moorings to tumble freely into other containers. Or at least they had previously. MacTavish passed by a dozen of the containers that had been torn open like so much paper.

"Hold, I see two on the platform," Gaz reported.

"I see them," Price said. "Weapons free," he said to his element.

"Firing," Lovejoy and MacTavish said almost in unison.

MacTavish could barely see the torches of the two x-rays through the rain, but he could still see them. Which mean they were right about…_there_.

He triggered a burst and watched as the still-lit torch tumbled to the deck. Next to him, Lovejoy dropped the other patroller with his own submachine gun. No response from any other patrollers, if there were any more.

"Targets down," Gaz said after a moment.

"Keep moving," Price said. Raising his carbine, he fired twice, and MacTavish could see puffs of pink erupt from the bodies despite the rainfall.

Again they crept forward through the rain. Moving under the steel grating of the platform that the patrol had been standing on, MacTavish noted the water drizzling onto his respirator was a nearly-opaque pink. He wiped it off in time to nearly catch a bullet to the face. The whole troop had, in fact. Whoever was guarding the ship was packing kit _far_ larger than a few popguns.

Machine gun fire raked the containers in front of the two SAS elements. Their staccato report and muzzle flashes were partially drowned out by the regular flashes of lightning and peals of thunder. But they were still being fired on with bloody machine guns. That much was unmistakable. Price quickly found cover behind a large fan housing, pulling MacTavish down beside him.

"We've got company, boss!" Gaz shouted.

"Like I couldn't tell," Price grumbled to MacTavish before keying his transmitter. "Hammer Two-Four, we have tangos on the second floor! Would appreciate some fire!"

"Copy, Bravo, engaging targets. Heads down, thumbs up. Beginning gun run."

Immediately MacTavish was thankful for the muffling provided by his half-arsed headset. The Direct Action Penetrator swung in close and unloaded possibly half of its arsenal on their unseen assailants. He saw the autocannon flash twice, each shot a flash of lightning and thunderclap that drowned out natural light and sound for a moment. Then the miniguns opened up as the gunship drifted from starboard to port. They were like lasers in the darkness as the crew chiefs played their fire over the windows. Glass shattered and rained down on the deck in front of them as the gunship worked over the defensive position.

Well, it was now a former defensive position, its crew having gone to meet their maker, leaving it an ex-defensive position. Satisfied with their work, the gunship backed off and picked up some altitude.

"Bravo Six, Hammer Two-Four," the copilot said. "We're at bingo fuel. We're bugging out in one. Big Bird will be on-station for evac in ten."

"Copy, Hammer Two-Four," Price said. "Bloody well done, and out." He looked around at his unit as MacTavish pulled himself up from behind cover. "Wallcroft, Griffen, cover our six. All others, on me."

"Roger that," Gaz said a moment later, jogging over while picking at a ragged tear in his assault suit. "Got a graze," he explained at MacTavish's cocked head.

Wallcroft and Griffen picked up the rear, establishing a position by the hatch while the others stacked up for entry. MacTavish checked his magazine as he got into position at the center of stack behind Emery. Half-used. Swapping it out for a fresh mag, he watched as Gaz pulled his W1200 off of his shoulder and readied it with a quick rack of the pump. The other operators stepped back as he took point.

"I like to keep this for close encounters," he said, his lack of a balaclava making his smile all too obvious.

"Too right, mate," Emery said, jabbing MacTavish with a playful elbow as he prepared for entry.

Shrugging, Price grabbed the hatch handles. "On my mark." At Gaz's nod, he pushed down and pulled the door back. "Go! Check those corners!"

Swinging in as part of the stack, MacTavish realized in the back of his mind that he had reverted to drill. The operators performed a flood with their weapon muzzles checking their sectors. This part of the ship was much better lit. And there was a most satisfying lack of x-rays that needed slotting. MacTavish let his muzzle drop slightly.

"Clear left," he said, still keeping an eye on his sector.

"Clear right," Lovejoy said behind him.

"Hallway clear," Price declared and waved the team on. "Move up."

Their rubber-soled boots were reassuringly quiet and maintained an excellent grip on the decking despite the water they were tracking all over the place. Advancing with Gaz at point, they remained vigilant. No contacts yet. But MacTavish had a good feeling the aseptic white-painted walls would be painted with red shortly. Coming upon a short set of blind stairs, Emery drew the short straw. He crept forward and performed the check.

"Clear. Stairs are clear," he reported after a tense second.

The troop moved down quickly and quietly with Lovejoy on point. Still no contacts. The piping that ran along the walls seemed alive in the flickering lighting, seemingly shifting and pulsing thanks to a combination of the crap lighting and the constant rocking of the ship. Lovejoy's hand suddenly came up in a fist. Hold. MacTavish immediately took a knee and had his MP5 ready.

"Movement right," Lovejoy reported. "Three x-rays."

Price nodded and waved them forward. "Copy, weapons free."

Quick and efficient. The MP5's recoil was barely noticeable as MacTavish engaged the x-rays alongside Gaz and Emery. Thoroughly suppressed, the only signs of their firing were the rapid clicks of their bolts working. That and the damage. He _loved_ the brass-catchers. One of their shots either missed or overpenetrated, blowing open one of the pipes. Well, now they knew what was in the pipes. One of the x-rays who had been miraculously unharmed up to then stumbled through the sudden eruption of white steam. He was clawing at his face, all of his exposed skin a vivid red mass of burns and blisters.

"Find a valve," Price ordered, dropping that unfortunate soul with four shots to the upper chest. "I don't want to be cooked getting through." He continued firing suppression into the steam cloud in case any x-ray got uppity.

"X-ray down," Gaz said, dropping another x-ray who managed to get out of the dubious cover of the steam blast.

"Got it!" Lovejoy announced after backing off from the firing line for a second. "Okay, we're clear?"

There was a barely-audible squeaking before the steam stopped flowing. Giving it a few seconds, they then continued their advance. Score one for high-temperature steam. Passing over the bullet-ridden corpses, MacTavish paused for a moment and double-tapped one of the bodies which looked like it was still breathing.

Turning and continuing down the hallway, they encountered no resistance. There _were_ several hatches. Those needed to be checked out.

"Lovejoy, Emery, lock them down," Gaz said as he ghosted along the side of the hallway, pointing out the hatches. "Soap, with me and the captain."

MacTavish nodded and kept moving as the two other operators quickly set to locking the hatches and double-checking with flex-cuffs. If there were people inside, they weren't going to be getting out.

Coming up on the open hatch that their plans had indicated was the entrance to the next part of the ship, Price took a quick peek and almost had his head taken off for his trouble. Tracers flashed past like lasers as machine gun fire came through the hatchway. There were ricochets, flashing and whining past the operators as they stacked up.

"Stand by, on my go," Price shouted over the din, palming a flashbang.

"Standing by," Emery said, joining the stack.

Picking up the rear of the stack, MacTavish flicked his fire selector to semi-automatic. No point in wasting shots. He saw Price pull the pin from the grenade. With a backwards flicking motion, the captain pitched the flashbang into the room beyond. A second later there was a thunderous crack, light flashing out of the hatchway for a brief moment.

"Flashbang out. Go, go, go!" Price shouted.

The team immediately swung in, weapons up and pointed at their sectors as they streamed out of the murder hole. Plenty of hostile contacts. And thanks to the wonderfully refractive nature of the steel walls, almost all of them were still reeling from the flashbang. The ones who weren't were dispatched first. The operators had the high ground and were exploiting it with a lethal glee, pouring aimed fire onto the enemies below after taking down the two gunners on the catwalk. It all went reflexive, acquiring and then dropping the x-rays. And when there were no more x-rays to slot, MacTavish's submachine gun lowered before he could register it.

"Catwalk clear," he said, blinking slightly. Was it fatigue? He shrugged off the feeling of disconnect and looked at Lovejoy behind him. "Got you covered. Move up."

"On me," Price said, pointing out the other side of the hold where there was a matching catwalk like the one they were standing on. "Clear to there."

"Copy," Gaz said, taking point down the stairs. "Watch your intervals."

It was mostly policing the bodies that they had to worry about as the team swept through the floor of the hold. A few of the x-rays had to be checked, seemingly incapable of giving up the ghost without the assistance of a few nine-millimeter hollowpoints to their heads. It was a simple process: kick them in the minerals and shoot them if they responded.

Nudging one of the x-rays and eliciting a groan of pain, MacTavish already had his MP5 up. But the bolt cycled dry. Were there really that many bodies they were policing? Digging out a fresh magazine, he reloaded his weapon and put down the wounded man with a double tap to the head, splattering brain, bone, and blood all over the crate he was resting against. Stepping over the body, he found another body and kicked it. No response. A brisk stomp on the head made no difference. Kicking the corpse's weapon away, he continued his search for bodies.

They checked slightly over a dozen bodies before they finally reached the other side. No stopping, no giving up precious momentum. Another reload traded the team's half-empty magazines for full loads. But if this sort of thing was getting ridiculous. Did they have to fight for _each_ room? Several of them were already half-way through their stocks of ammunition, MacTavish included.

"Gaz, Emery, right side," Price said as he moved to cover the hatchway next to the catwalk. "On me," he said to MacTavish and Lovejoy. "Prepare for breach."

"On it," Gaz said, his rifle coming up to cover the catwalks as they prepared for breach.

"Right, stack up," Price said.

MacTavish wound up in the middle of the stack this time. He watched Price undog the hatch before delivering a firm kick to knock it open.

"Go!"

They streamed through the hatchway, Gaz taking the left with Emery while Lovejoy and MacTavish took the right with the captain behind them.

"Clear right," Emery reported. "Some of the boxes got knocked off, no way here."

"Clear left, my way," Gaz said right afterwards. "Soap, on point."

Bypassing a shipping container that had broken free of its moorings, they found themselves looking at a trip up to the catwalk again. MacTavish immediately spotted movement on the opposite catwalk in addition to the hold below. Well, they were here for a reason. He lined up his shot, communicating as he fired.

"Contacts, x-rays, opposite catwalk," he said, stroking the trigger over and over as he dropped one after another.

"Contact, deck below!" Price barked, his own carbine spitting suppressed death. "Stay low!"

Again the hold became an acoustic battle between the quiet but rapid clicks of the SAS's suppressed weapons against the full-throated chatter of the onboard "security" team's weapons of dubious legal nature. The air over the hold floor became a flashing storm of tracers as they exchanged fire. It was quick becoming a stalemate. But then the operators had two things their opponents lacked: anti-flash goggles, sound-filtering headsets, and a whole load of flashbangs waiting to be used.

"Flash out!" Lovejoy shouted, pumping his arm as he flung the stun grenade downrange like an American footballer.

When it came to the echoing confines of a cargo carrier's holds, the term "echoing" became rather important. The flashbang's detonation reverberated throughout the hold, much louder thanks to the steel walls that bounced the sound around so well. Two more of the grenades pitched by Gaz and then Emery added to the cacophony, staggering the x-rays with waves of debilitating sound and light, allowing them to be quickly picked off.

"Keep it moving," Price shouted, pushing ahead. "Down there," he said pointing out another hatch.

They should have secured the hatches behind them, but tonight was a high-speed operation. No prisoners, and they were theoretically still carrying enough ammo to shoot their way back out if push came to shove. And everything had gone according to plan. But MacTavish could feel his thoughts wandering again. Balling a hand into a fist, he smacked the temple of his respirator hard. There. The momentary pain allowed him to focus. Another hold to take down. Wonderful.

"Stack up," Price said when he reached the open hatch. "Last hold. Standby, on my go."

They stacked up again, Emery and Lovejoy on one side, MacTavish and the captain on the other, and Gaz providing overwatch a few meters back with his carbine. Price prepped the hold with another flashbang before giving the nod.

"Go!"

Performing a rather simple flood, the operators piled into the room with their weapons ready. Targets spotted, they wasted no time opening fire. Ricochets occasionally pinged off the metal around them as they moved quickly from cover to cover while still engaging x-rays. Emery grunted as he took a spill when a round smacked head-on into his vest. Righting himself, he scrambled to safety behind a storage unit next to MacTavish.

"How're you holding up, Soap?" he asked as rounds flew past them. Leaning out, he fired a quick burst. "First day on the job, eh?"

"Yeah," MacTavish said as he dropped an x-ray up on the catwalk across from them. "Not too bad. Chest bothering you?"

"No time to bleed, mate," Emery said with a chuckle before firing again. He suddenly pointed at another container that was closer to the center of the hold. "Over there, I'll give suppressive!"

MacTavish took a peek and nodded. "On it. On three."

"Three! Go!" Emery shouted, rising up and firing quick bursts at where he recalled x-rays were hiding.

Breaking from cover, MacTavish sprinted for the crate while his fellow operator supplied suppressive fire. He dropped into a slide to brake once he was within arm's reach of the crate, only to come face to face with an x-ray.

His submachine gun was too long to maneuver. Dragging his SIG out of its holster, he fired it twice center mass. The x-ray managed a strangled cough before knocking the pistol out of his hands trying to land a clumsy punch. What the hell was he on? MacTavish remembered even the most doped-up Taliban dropping with a double-tap to the chest. He half-speared the x-ray against the container, hopefully knocking the breath out of the x-ray and stunning him. Drawing his utility folder, he snapped it open and slammed the short blade into the x-ray's side. Not much blood when he pulled it out, so MacTavish stabbed him again, this time sawing the blade around to open up the wound.

The pain from that had snapped the x-ray out of his disorientation, and he tried fighting back. His fingers clawed at MacTavish's respirator mask even as he pushed the blade in deeper. Pulling the blade out, he wrestled with the x-ray who was starting to shriek. His blade flashed again as he slammed it in under the x-ray's left armpit. More blood. Enough to coat his assault gloves.

Driven by fear and whatever else was in his system, the x-ray still continued trying to fight. A fist smashed into MacTavish's head. He didn't feel much except for the seals of his respirator being pushed into his face by the impact, but the x-ray managed to cut his hand open on the mask, smearing his lenses with blood.

Ears roaring with blood, MacTavish was distantly aware of his opponent screaming and cursing at him, all while trying to claw his mask off of him. He smashed the pommel of his knife against the x-ray's face twice before he stopped trying to scratch the heavy plastic of the mask's goggles. Reversing the blade, he brought it tip-first down into the x-ray's neck. No escaping now.

And still the x-ray struggled. MacTavish applied more pressure as he felt the man thrashing underneath him. His knife hadn't gone straight through any major vessels, so some more work was needed. Working the parkerized blade back and forth, he could feel the muscle being torn and cut by the somewhat blunt utility knife. He'd have to sharpen it later. Balling a hand into a fist, he smashed the x-ray's face into a bloody mess to get him to stop struggling. There were splinters of tooth and cartilage stuck on the knuckle ridge of his gloves now. But at least he stopped struggling. Pulling the blade out, MacTavish brought it back down, this time on target. The x-ray's throat was opened up like a charm and MacTavish stood up. His heart was barely beating above baseline, but the front of his assault gear was practically coated in the blood of x-ray quickly bleeding to death underneath him.

"X-ray down," he said, picking up and holstering his sidearm.

Readying his MP5, he looked around for more targets. The gunfire had died down to a few sporadic holdouts that Gaz and Price were dislodging with their heavier carbines. Emery finished off another shooter with a quick burst to his chest as he jogged over to where MacTavish was getting his bearings.

"You've got red on you," he said, pointing at the dark red slick that covered much of his vest and suit. It was, oddly enough, beading up like water would have.

"Yeah, yeah," MacTavish said. "Come on, we have x-rays to slot."

"I think this one's cooked," Emery said, pointing the muzzle of his submachine gun at the body that MacTavish was standing over. "Nice job."

"Thanks."

They checked two corpses before there was a muffled shriek followed by the sound of a body tumbling down a flight of stairs. No more gunfire.

"Report, all clear?" Price shouted.

"Roger that," Gaz said as he wandered over while policing the bodies. "You've got red on you," he said, pointing at the mess on MacTavish's vest.

"Yeah, _yeah_," MacTavish said irritably. "So is the package here?"

"Hold on," Gaz said, pulling out the small wand of his Geiger from his belt. "I'll be right back."

Lovejoy jogged over with a chromed Desert Eagle in his off-hand.

"Take a look at this," he said, snorting as he offered it to Emery and MacTavish. "What sort of a cunt uses one of these?"

"Desert Eagle, point-five-oh," Emery said, taking the pistol and reading the inscription on the side. "Enough to make them shrivel up and die, eh? You thinking of bringing it along?"

"Why not?" Lovejoy asked with a shrug.

"Because there are rules about non-regulation carries," Price said as he walked past with the wand. "Come on, Lovejoy. We've got crates to search. You two can fiddle about with your thumbs up your arses."

Shrugging, Lovejoy pulled his own Geiger and walked off to help in the search. MacTavish leaned against the corrugated steel of a shipping container and tried to rub off the blood and spittle from the goggles of his respirator. It was a lost cause thanks to the thin but noticeable scratches that had also been left on them. Next to him, Emery had attached his mask's drinking tube to his canteen and was busy hydrating.

"I'm getting a strong reading, sir," Gaz shouted suddenly.

Both operators immediately sprung into motion, hurrying over to Gaz's position. The crackle of his Geiger counter was shortly joined by Price's as they all convened around the shipping container. It looked like any other of the containers, but it was the only one marked by "Kriegler Transporting" along the side.

"You might want to have a look at this," Gaz said, grabbing the latch and preparing to open it up. "Soap, Lovejoy. Emery, torch."

The two operators readied their submachine guns and had them aimed when their executive officer pulled the door open. A long metal lockbox sat on a pair of wooden pallets in the middle of the container. When Emery shone his torch into the container, it revealed a broad red banner with a yellow star and crossed scimitars with Arabic underneath. MacTavish recognized it easily. Caliphate Party. They were particularly popular in the more fundamentalist portions of the Middle East. Most people considered them a mob of nutters, but this certainly changed things around a bit.

"Looks like Arabic. Lovejoy, get some captures," Price ordered before keying his comms. "Baseplate, this is Bravo Six. We found it. Ready to secure package for transport."

"No time, Bravo Six," their mission control reported. "Two bogies are headed your way fast. Grab what you can and get the hell out of there."

Lovejoy glanced up as he finished his work with his camera. "Bogies? Fast movers?"

"We're in international waters," Gaz said. "Fast movers. Probably MiGs. We'd better go, sir," he said to the captain.

"Soap, grab the manifest," Price ordered. "Everyone else sorted?"

"Yes sir," Lovejoy said, tucking his camera back into his vest.

MacTavish nodded, stepping inside the container while trying to give the lockbox a nice wide berth. No point in getting too close to radiologicals. There was a clipboard with possibly a dozen sheets on it. He grabbed it, tucking it under his vest and cinching the straps to keep it secure and dry during exfiltration. Nothing else of value.

"Alright, everyone topside!" Price barked. "Double time!"

The operators broke out into a run, heading back towards the hatchway. Vaulting over a set of steel railings, MacTavish was could feel the clipboard dig into his shoulder underneath the armor. Alas, the things he did for his country…

"Wallcroft, Griffen, what's your status?" Price asked from the front of the rush.

Wallcroft responded, "Already in the helicopter, sir. Eyes on aircraft inbound- Shit! They're engaging! Get out of there now!"

It was as if a giant fist had slammed into the side of the ship, turning it into a giant gong. By the time MacTavish had registered Wallcroft's second sentence, he was already in the air and going face first for a taste of metal grating. He saw flames erupting from the bulkhead as he rolled over onto his back. His legs felt numb as he tried to get himself upright and mobile. The voice of an American was buzzing in his ear.

"Bravo Six, this is Big Bird, come in! Bravo Six, what's your status?"

Despite his best efforts, his limbs refused to obey. He'd taken a nasty whack to head as well if his double-vision was any indication. He saw Price lying a meter away, rolling onto his side and getting up. Price stumbled over and grabbed MacTavish's arm, pulling him up. MacTavish numbly noticed the sudden rush of water pouring into the hold as he tried to stay on his feet. Already he was seeing a few centimeters on the floor already.

"Shit, what the hell happened? What the fuck was that?" Emery shouted, dragging himself to his feet with the help of his MP5.

"The ship's sinking!" Gaz responded as he got up. "We've got to go, _now_!"

"Bravo Six, come in, damn it!" the pilot of their extraction chopper shouted, loud enough to cause some feedback over comms.

"Big Bird, this is Bravo Six! We're on our way out!" Price responded, equally loud. He shook MacTavish's shoulder violently. "Come on! On your feet, soldier! We are leaving!" he shouted, emphasizing the last three words. "Get to the catwalks! Move, move, move!"

"Ditch your kit," Gaz shouted, pulling his carbine's sling off and tossing it aside as he ran. "Move your arses! Come on, let's go!"

Getting onto the catwalk, MacTavish saw part of the bulkhead explode outwards, spraying the evacuating team with a deluge of water. Lovejoy stumbled when he was hit by the water, only to be pulled up by Price.

"Back on your feet! Let's go!" Price shouted, barely slowing.

Ducking under the water, MacTavish sped up trying to keep pace with the rest of the team in front of him. He could feel the ship listing to one side already, paneling coming loose and flying across the catwalk.

"Watch your head!" MacTavish shouted when a piece of sheeting nearly took his head off, his voice cracking.

"Go, go! Keep moving!" Gaz shouted from the head of the team as they entered the first hold.

It would have been tricky enough to run on the increasingly-sloped surface with their boots. But the water made it almost impossible. MacTavish had to correct himself constantly as he ran, the shaking ship constantly knocking him around. As they neared the final hatchway, he could hear and feel the metal of the catwalk protesting underneath them.

"She's breaking away!" Gaz shouted. "Hurry!"

"Go! Go!" Price shouted. He managed to make it over the flexing catwalk as it started to separate.

Calling on his reserves, MacTavish picked up more speed even as he saw the metal underneath his feet begin to warp and break away from its moorings with the bulkhead. He jumped and barely made it with a piece of the ship's ventilation system coming down right behind him. Catching up with the rest of the team, he rounded the left corner of the hallway in time to get sprayed by a bursting pipe, this one carrying water.

"Watch those pipes!" Gaz warned as more of them started to detonate around them as the team ran for their lives.

It was a few meters to the right before they turned right onto the long hallway, the bodies still there, but now soaking wet. They followed the passageway as it looped left and left again up the staircase. More and more of the pipes burst and came loose, rolling and tumbling around the uneven deck.

"Talk to me, Bravo Six," Big Bird's pilot said. "Where the hell are you?"

"Standby, we're almost there!" Price barked.

Another left up a flight of stairs and MacTavish could hear Gaz shouting and Price responding.

"Price! Which way? Which way to the helicopter?"

"To the right! Stay to the right!"

Boots slipping again, MacTavish winced as his shoulder slammed into the bulkhead at the top of the stairs. Thankfully it provided enough force to keep himself upright. He desperately followed Price's back as they charged down the corridor and made the right turn. Lowered airflow, which had previously been an inconvenience in the form of their respirators was becoming an outright hazard now. He had to struggle to draw breath into his burning lungs as he ran.

Endrun. He could see the open hatch at the end of the hallway, the same one they had entered through.

"Come on, we're running out of time!" Gaz called. "Come on, let's go!"

Finally emerging from the claustrophobic confines of the ship, MacTavish was met with a nearly sixty-degree incline that threatened to drop him into the railings if not the drink. Turning right and right on Price's tail, he scrambled to keep his balance as he ran with the team. They passed under the scaffolding on the side of the ship as they sprinted to make extraction.

"Keep moving!" Price ordered.

But there was nothing beyond that next right except for the railing and the stormy sea beyond.

"Where the hell is it?" Gaz shouted, desperation-driven panic seeping into his voice.

And then as if by some act of God, a dark shape swooped down in front of them by the railing. A CH-46 Sea Knight. And what a welcome sight it was. The pilot had brought it level with the top of the railing without even adjusting. Smooth as silk.

"You beautiful baby!" Gaz whooped as he charged forward to clamber aboard the helicopter before helping the rest of the team on. "Come on!"

But just as Price had stepped aboard, the ship listed further and a gap grew between MacTavish and the open chopper door.

"Jump for it!" Lovejoy shouted. "Come on!"

Almost exhausted, MacTavish wasn't sure he could. But who dares, wins. He forced himself into a dead run with the last of his energy. Each step felt like a century with the adrenaline coursing through him. He was nearing the edge despite running literally uphill. His legs unconsciously prepared to make the jump. All it took was this and he was home free. Jump…_now_!

He felt his boots leave the sloping surface of the deck. Flying weightless across the gap, MacTavish could see inside the Sea Knight now. He landed on the open ramp of the helicopter with his arms stretched out. Utterly exhausted, he almost didn't notice when he started to slide down the ramp. When he did, his eyes went wide. It turned out that the anti-slip panels only really worked when there wasn't rain that turned it into a slippery mess. He could feel the rough panels sliding out under his gloved hands as he struggled for purchase on the ramp.

Just as he was about to fully slip away, Price reached and pulled him fully into the Sea Knight.

"Got you!" Price said. He turned and shouted forward to the pilot, "We're all aboard! Let's go!"

MacTavish mustered enough energy to pull himself closer to one of the benches. He felt the hands of fellow operators helping him into the seat. Behind him, the open ramp of the helicopter framed the sinking ship perfectly. It floundered in the swells of the stormy sea for a moment before slipping quietly beneath the waves, taking any evidence of the SAS's activities with it.

"Roger that, all aboard," the pilot said. "We are outta here. Baseplate, this is Big Bird. Package is secure, we are RTB. Out."

Resting his helmeted head against the netting-covered wall of the chopper, MacTavish fumbled with his mask, his numb fingers making it hard to remove the accursed thing. Finally prying it loose, he pulled it away from his red and sweaty face and dropped it at his feet as he sucked in fresh air. Salty and ice cold, it was possibly the best air he had ever tasted. The other operators had begun strapping themselves in for the ride back.

"Oi, Captain," Gaz called suddenly between gasps of air. "I think I lost the demo!"

Several of the operators snickered, and it soon escalated to laughing in earnest. Soon the crew bay was filled with howls of laughter as they came off the adrenaline rush. MacTavish managed a croaking sound that gradually filled out into something resembling laughter as the ramp closed. They were safe now, and on their way home. He couldn't wait.

* * *

_**Day 1 – 01:06:48**_

_**Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti**_

"The Corps took care it own," they said. But if this was how the Marine Corps took care of its own, Private First Class Michael Carver wanted out. He looked around the PAR-lit tarmac of the airfield as he stepped off the repurposed commercial airliner that had brought him and most of First Battalion, 7th Marines to Djibouti.

"Hey, move it, Mikey," PFC Wilhelm Baker said from behind him, pushing him lightly. "I want to get some sleep, man."

Shipped out of Dwyer in the dead of night, they had been flown around all day. First they had landed in Arifjan in Kuwait for reissue of gear and the mustering of probably the whole regiment. And now they were in Djibouti in the dead of night. The lights desaturated everything like a bad first person shooter as he hit the tarmac. Gear over a shoulder, he only had to follow the rest of his unit as they were led to one staging area or another like they were in a pinball machine.

He spotted a fair number of special forces types milling around the tents set up on the tarmac. Marine Reconnaissance, both the Reconnaissance battalions and Force Reconnaissance if appearances were anything to go by, and there were also Army Special Forces and Navy SEAL operators. Every other minute a helicopter would land or buzz overhead. The base was a hive of activity that had apparently taken over the airport that they were technically part of.

"Third Company, First Battalion!" an officer shouted. "Seventh Marines! Over here!"

"Looks like it's us," Carver said, glancing back at Baker. "Peace out," he then said, clapping the shoulder of Lance Corporal Stephen Stokes in front of him. "Catch you around, eh?"

"Yeah, see you around," Stokes said. As a member of Second Battalion, he was going to be cycled through the pinball machine for likely a while longer.

The two enlisted men detached themselves from the train with a dozen other men to join the new officer. A captain by the looks of him. Did they have a new company commander? Captain Lee hadn't been _that_ badly injured by the roadside bomb, had he?

"Evening, gentlemen," the captain, apparently named Miller, said. "I am Captain James Miller. Captain Lee is still being treated for shrapnel, so they called me in to replace him." He looked at what was roughly three-fourths of the company. "I've heard good things about you men, and I hope we will work well together. So if you'll follow me, I'll show you where you're going to be bunking out for the night."

To Carver's sleep-fogged mind, Miller sounded like a total fucking tool. What sort of a douchebag gave that kind of a speech to his men? _I hope we'll work well together_? Where did they dig this guy out from under? Sure, he looked like a Marine, and sounded vaguely like a Marine, but he certainly didn't feel like one. He didn't particularly care though, as long as he got some sleep.

"Come on, move it, Mikey," Baker said, prodding him again. "Follow the man. I wanna get some beauty sleep," he said, mirroring Carver's own thoughts.

Stifling a yawn, he shouldered his bag and followed the captain with the rest of the company to find their racks. Sleep, and perchance to dream…

* * *

-

* * *

Author's Notes: Finally, an update! I was actually stuck on the first two paragraphs of the "Crew Expendable" segment for a while. Comments and crits are always welcome and generally give me an incentive to update more quickly...


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